alone in my apartment,
midday sun slanting through the
half-drawn blinds,
jolly roger fluttering gently in
one window, trans pride flag in
the other, i find myself feelin’
some kinda way

kneeling, though never in prayer,
i pull out packer, pouch, and
two different jockstraps

moving to stand out of view
from down on the street, i nestle
the packer into the pink jockstrap
and put my shorts back on

spend some time adjusting the
packer, wishing i had a full length
mirror, but sufficing with the little
vanity that lives by my coffee maker

in the open doorway between bedroom
and kitchen, i palm the length of
the packer through the front of my shorts,
wondering if the novelty of having
a ***** ever wears off for cis men

still feelin’ some kinda way,
i take out a black knee-length skirt
patterned in rainbows that so rarely
leaves the dresser drawer, and
slip it on

and i feel an all caps
kind of GOOD

and the grade A 100%,
genuine article,
bonafide,
GENDER EUPHORIA
i feel could power a small city

(and i slump down in my
ratty desk chair, knees loose and open,
palm myself through the front of the skirt,
imagine some faceless lover
running their hand up the inside
of my thigh and pulling aside the
jockstrap to get at the packer

picture them unraveling me like
divoting a thumbnail into the supple
skin of an orange, peeled in one long strip,
and taking me in like each segment,
juices running down their chin)

tell me true,
oh, love of mine,
what happens
after the fade to black?

from wide and life-sized
on the silver screen down
to a pinprick,
watch as those colors
slowly bleed out

and tell me what comes
next, after the cowboy
strolls off into that sunset,
painted in shades of red and orange

and what happens after
the pirate captain sails away
into that horizon, technicolor in
shades of empty *** bottles and
salt crusted into jagged long coat hems

does the old dog learn
new tricks, in this one?
do we take the rocks out
of our pockets?
do we ever love ourselves
back?

i don’t have the answers
this time, my hand is not
the one holding the pen

and i’ve slept through the
ending of this movie before,
or hid my face in your shoulder,
always grateful you’ll still let me

and i have no interest in
the man behind the curtain,
won’t look past that fade to black,
content in not knowing what
happens after the credits roll
for a little while longer

mouthful of cheap beer
gets caught on the
sudden lump in my throat,
bubbles burning all the way
up to my nose

i want to cry,
hot tears burning the backs
of my eyes

maybe throw my head back
and howl mournfully at that
big old moon, always so far away

and i’ve never been much
of a praying man,
but i’d still press my aching knees
into the soft dirt right outside that
lonely little cemetery chapel

and i won’t ask for succor,
have no plans to confess my sins,
just want to pretend for a spell
that i can find comfort in
something greater than myself

and maybe the cold metal
of the handle, that lovely wood grain,
will burn its way into the skin of
my palms when i try to step inside

and maybe i’ll let it,
just this one time

coyly, oh captain of mine,
you glance at me over the
soft curve of your shoulder,
and my mouth fills with saliva

i am a pirate, down to his
last dregs of ***

and i am a cowboy, dying of
a thirst in the desert that only
you can slake

and i am a bard, whose lute strings
have all been snapped by his own hand

to put it real bluntly here,
i am ******* starving

and there are so many ways,
to starve and be starved in turn

it is your touch that i yearn for,
tenderly on my cheek,
and ****** in the collar of my jacket

let’s curl around each other,
just this once,
share some body heat and a
six pack of cheap beers

and if i asked really nicely,
batted my eyelashes up at you
just so, would you let me
carry a piece of you with me?

let me sink my chipped and crooked
teeth in to that junction of shoulder
and throat, right above your collar bones

and we can pretend that your red,
red blood
on my teeth is a construction paper
valentine that i hand to you and
then shyly glance away

i ask you to run away with me,
say, ‘let’s get that boat sea-worthy,
hop trains and take buses,
go where the wind takes us
for a change’

i’d follow you to where the
ocean meets the sky,
if you let me

i’ve got so much love to give,
so be a little selfish just this once,
and let me pack a bag

i’ll be by your side,
or a few steps behind,
for as long as you’ll have me

this doesn’t have to be
some grand adventure, no
fairy tale ending where you
hold me so softly

just let me make you breakfast,
buy that coffee you like every
once in a while, and let’s watch the
early morning sunlight cast the room
in a golden hue together

and maybe you’ll say yes,
one day

and maybe you won’t,
and that’ll be okay, too

tell me, cowboy,
just what would happen if
you were to turn and face that
wild animal which chases you
across the desert, and into
your dreams?

when the only sound that
echoes out across those
great sandy dunes is the
jingle jangle of your spurs,
do you ever think of me?

does that wild thing have
something to say to you,
or will it simply knock you
down and press yellowed fangs
against the soft skin of your throat,
and which one scares you more?

tell me, cowboy,
can you tell the difference between
a tender caress and a choke-chain,
or do they both feel the same
to that wild thing in your chest?

because i can, cowboy,
and i’ve got the bloodied knuckles and
split lip to show for it,
having wrestled that wild thing into
a shape which i can hold dear

and i think of you, cowboy,
when i’m laying under that
same desert sky, with nothing to my
name but the whiskey warming my guts,
a threadbare jacket under my head,
and your name, sweet on my lips

kneeling in order to rest
my cheek on the windowsill
and gaze up at the moon through
the full and green tree branches,
i briefly allow myself to indulge in
that hopeful romanticism that we’re
both looking at the same celestial body

and i know you’d laugh if i
put it the way,
tell me i’m guilty of cliches,
and something about all
those ****** bards

but i can live with that,
because i know that when i
leave after breakfast, you’ll
wave back and watch as i go

i’ll even have the courtesy to wait
until i’m standing on loose gravel,
waiting for the first bus,
to press the sleeve of my jacket to my
nose and breathe that last little
bit of you in

and i thought of you, after that
first time i had kissed another man,
walking back home in the dark and
worrying the clover pendant you’d
given me between shaking fingers

and i’m still chasing that high of
when you swept me off my feet,
suspended briefly in that in between time
of too late and too early at night,
not having been held like that since
i was a boy

and is it any surprise that i’m
still sweet on you,
after all these years?