I walked into the cocktail party
room and found three or four queers
talking together in queertalk.
I tried to be friendly but heard
myself talking to one in hiptalk.
"I'm glad to see you," he said, and
looked away. "Hmn," I mused. The room
was small and had a double-decker
bed in it, and cooking apparatus:
icebox, cabinet, toasters, stove;
the hosts seemed to live with room
enough only for cooking and sleeping.
My remark on this score was under-
stood but not appreciated. I was
offered refreshments, which I accepted.
I ate a sandwich of pure meat; an
enormous sandwich of human flesh,
I noticed, while I was chewing on it,
it also included a ***** *******.

More company came, including a
fluffy female who looked like
a princess. She glared at me and
said immediately: "I don't like you,"
turned her head away, and refused
to be introduced. I said, "What!"
in outrage. "Why you ****-faced fool!"
This got everybody's attention.
"Why you narcissistic *****! How
can you decide when you don't even
know me," I continued in a violent
and messianic voice, inspired at
last, dominating the whole room.

When I was
seven years old
I crept down our stairs
in the dark
it was just about midnight
on Christmas Eve
and I
wanted to catch Santa Claus
as he put presents
under our tree

When I was
fifteen years old
I laid on his bed
in the dark
it was in the evening
during the summer
and I
nervously waited for him
to shove his *****
inside of me

I hid
near the fireplace
anxiously awaiting an arrival
hands clenched into tight fists
giddy with anticipation
waiting in the dark

I spread
open my legs
feeling pressured and defeated
the TV blared so that
his mom wouldn't hear
my hands clenched into tight fists
I didn't want to touch him
but I
waited in the dark

I didn't see Santa Claus
instead
it was my parents
shoveling presents under
our tree
my verbal exclamation of shock
and betrayal
led to them disciplining me
for sneaking around
in the dark

I didn't look at him
instead
my eyes wandered around
his room
gazing at the guitars and
posters and
the closet and
even the TV
he ******* and
left me there, cold
in the dark

At school,
I told all of my friends
that Santa Claus wasn't real
I wanted everyone to know
the counselor pulled me aside
and said that it wasn't fair
for me to take this
from the other kids
it wasn't right
it wasn't my place
"Let them stay innocent
a little while longer."

I didn't want anyone to know
when I lost
my virginity
tears bubbling at my waterline,
I looked at myself
in disgust
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't his place.
Except there was no counselor
for me to speak to
only the sound
of water droplets
falling
as I cried in the shower

I thought that
I lost my innocence
when I found out
that Santa Claus wasn't
real.

But
this IS real
and hurts
so
much
more.

I like to change the color of my hair
Every few weeks
My five year plan gets crossed through
Before one tally can leave the queue
Routine is a bore
Monotony is a slow death
The Naomi Doldrums
Strike again.

I've lived in three different states
In three different years
Across the country and back around
I've never been one for
"Settling down"

Yet somehow...

I trusted you
To put on this ring
To make a plan
Involving more than just me
Being tied down was a fear
But I've never felt more free

Routine isn't so bad
Monotony is a dream
If I get to love you like this
In a way before unseen

What a new style of living
Of which I was so unaware
But I cannot promise you consistency...
                        with the color of my hair.

I live
In a cardboard cutout house
Our plates and silverware
Are plastic
The food adorning them
Plastic as well
Glossy and vibrant
But poisonous if consumed

No water will pour
From the sink or tub
If you try to turn
The handle

The plants are fake
The dog is fake
The microwave won't turn on
The floor looks wooden
                           (which may be the case)
For there is no carpet
                           in sight
No decor to behold

I try to pull back
The sheets on the bed
Only to find
That they're entwined--
Attached to the mattress
That feels more like
Pottery
I lean down to see
                           "Made in China"
Etched on the side
Of the frame

My footsteps echo
Down the hall
On the wooden floor
Of the cardboard cutout house
Until I finally see
Something living
Something real

Until I get close.

Her skin is matte
Her eyes are dull
Her teeth are chalk white
Her hair (maybe made from silk?)
                           sits perfectly in place
She is positioned with a smile--
                           Her vinyl arm bent at the elbow
                           Masquerading a friendly wave

She is merely a sculpture
                           A doll of a human being
Filled with wax instead of tissue
Factory made, not a product of Love(TM)

I escape
Away from the figurine Mother
The clay bed
Hard floors
Prop kitchenware and
Plastic food

Because a cardboard cutout house
                           is not a home.

Van Morrison wrote a song
about me.

And yet the beachy, surf-rock
guitar and loving lyrics
couldn't convince me
that I
was
beautiful.

I envied those with light eyes
Blue,
Green, or
Grey
I saw mine as being
Flat,
Dull, and
Dark

And found yet another reason
to wish that I was
someone
else.

But then you came along.

You saw more than just...
brown.

You looked at me with those
bright baby blues
those shining windows
of a clear summer day

You told me they were brown...
but also
Hazel
and
Auburn
in the sunlight
with specks of gold
"Big love crumbs"
as one of our favorites
would say

I always wanted to be
someone else.

Now, I dread the thought
of being anyone
but yours.

And now, I hear
Van Morrison singing
for the
First Time.

She is right to fear me
Though I would never dream
Of laying a finger
Or inflicting even a fragment of pain
Upon her beautiful countenance

(Intentionally, that is)

I have never seen
Such a darling woman
Her dark, round eyes
Leave me frozen in place
Her narrow, sculpted face
Captures me
She need not utter a sound
To beguile me speechless

There are many like her
But none ARE her
As I have studied from afar
Watched her
Worshiped her
I wish she didn't come around
So often
For it is daunting to think
Of what I may do

She has become close to me
Letting me into her space
Am I imagining trust?
I wish she would run from me
And find someone else to
Spend time with
Someone more like her

Her long, powerful legs
Are captivating
The way she carries herself
As graceful as a dancer--
Maybe even more so

I see her almost every day now
She still looks healthy
But
I hope one day she won't
Be alone

Maybe that's why she looks to me
Her silent, careful observer
Maybe she knows I mean no harm
But I can't promise that
For my species is one that marries
Destruction
One that may have torn down
Her old home
Poisoned her water source
Killed her companions
Caused her to know an unnatural fear

I sit in my car
On my driveway
And watch her from only
A few feet away
She looks back at me
With those full eyes
And we sit like this for a while

I wonder if she understands
My apology
My forlorn gaze as I ponder
How long she will survive out there
I thank whoever is listening
That she'll never know about
Her son's head being mounted
On a wall
Or maybe her father's...
Whichever looks more appealing to us

Finally I free myself from
This trance and
Honk my horn
I watch her glide through the woods
Away from me

I want her to be afraid.

Because I am afraid
For her.

There's something nostalgic about
The smell of
Cigarettes in the rain.

I am reminded of
Nights bleeding over into
The morning
Inhaling whiskey
                        and
Exhaling nicotine

Bonfires on the beach
Only...
I've wandered away from
The fire
My feet sinking deeper
Into dark, cold sand
The cool water only slightly
Tickling my toes

I think of
Waking up
In unknown houses
Unknown apartments
Unknown beds
                        With
Unknown people
Trying to recount
What just transpired.

I recollect
Faces that have
Come and gone
Dancing
                        and
Laughing
About what?

I couldn't tell you.

In the midst of it all
I feel
An emptiness
A hole
Pain and
Also nothing.

I feel nothing.

Yet still
Years later
A 3 AM hotel concierge
Reeking of cigarettes in the rain
Can bring it all back

Whiskey
                        Bonfires
Cold feet
                        Blurred friends(?)
Laughing                        and
                        Hopelessness.

Course smoke in a downpour
Nicotine in the mist
How could I ever miss a feeling like this?

Fresh blades of grass brush
Along my bare feet as I
Glide through the front yard.

it takes
            a special kind of
self loathing
            to reach for a
bottle
            as your eyes are
opening

to begin
            the process of
poisoning yourself
            as darkness
dissipates

blind to the orange
              explosion
the yellow and red hues
              now encapsulating
the sky

the warmth
and radiance of
The Sun
as its rays
blanket my world--

a sensation I willingly
                 betray
a sense of happiness I consciously
                 ignore

as I sit in my
                 dark room

Shot
                 After
Shot

trying to (literally)
d r o w n
my sorrows
that creep up
behind closed eyes
unleashing upon my
mind as lids part

running rather than
                  fighting

choosing to sink
                  when I could be
swimming

The Sun is high
encouraging plants to dance
and animals to wake
and yet I wither
in an enclosed space

my roommate returns
from an overnight shift
to find me

intoxicated
                   inebriated
vomiting
                   in bed

the day is beginning
but my life
                   feels over.

When will I finally see the light?