David Eugene, look at me when I am thinking of you!
I declare myself a child of narcissism. I’m a disciple,
a follower of the most newly found.
Love is disguised well in sarcasm, in moments of mocking and making-fun.
I only see the Davids of this world for who they are and rarely for who they want me to see,
longing for who others make me want to be,
afraid [at times] of whom they’ll believe me to want and afraid they’ll think it is always him.
Oh David, do you not recognize the idolatry in my loyalty?
Doesn’t my face give away the desire to be looking into my own face as I look at you?
It does if you’d look up and see my eyes, the tears still kept close, pooling in my eyelids.
I became me such a short time ago; being someone else doesn’t seem so drastic.
I wonder why I cower in my corner, shy away into the safety of home
when safety comes from experiencing the world and those in it.
Denial of this truth makes me feel safe, despite so many shouting it like anthems,
begging me to listen
Love means replacing my foolishness with the needs of friends,
an act that is excruciatingly joyous.
David is more important than I am — more than I am.
[so too are the others, whose hearts I meant to steal while I had the chance]
They exist, whereas I seem like mere fragments of their lives, real on their terms.
Reassurance is nice; I’m not looking for pats on my head
like a Lhasa Apso with its head cocked to one side, no attention ever enough.
My needs are basic — understanding and compassion and selflessness;
a recognition of value.
To require selflessness is selfish.
If I am to be the tucked into the shadows, part of other people’s lives, but only negligibly,
then I should be rewarded with love — romantic love. I should and will.
Heartache is trite, but I dwell on it even as I try to set it free,
unchaining my tongue, allowing bravery to escape.
I release my heartache in the name of becoming that person who I see in David,
who has been rewarded for his beauty and brazen spirit
with love and sex, but more importantly companionship [warmth].
I humbly bow and request my turn, giving thanks
for less obvious, yet still true love and for great aspirations.
For life and someone to share my dinners and wine with,
models set by those I so desperately wish I could be, I can still only long and wait.
But I don’t wait alone and my side is crowded with those too ashamed to admit how they really feel.
for a friendship I hope has more life in it
I grasp for her, for who we were,
for what I wish I could will her to be;
she slips through fingers too ill equipped
to manage with the wetness of our friendship.
In vain, I clutch too hard;
the last of what we are escapes silently.
Hop Off, Little Lapin
for Jennie Lloyd
hop hop skip skip hop hop skip! little flowered bunny-eared... sugarsugar hi! bounce bounce jump jump jump! cute-in-white halo-clad... curtsy for the audience. clap clap yell yell clap clap clap! carbonated caffeinated coffeecoffee more! wave wave bye bye bye! don't forget me... I won't forget you jenniejennie babe!
Jerry Pt I
My heart still hurts and I still love you, my friend.
I don’t understand why you ran away. I never will.
Your boyfriend’s hold was too much;
his approval was too important to you.
So, you left.
You left me.
My arms will still be open, my home yours,
if you ever need it — need me.
My life has a space reserved for you,
Life rips you apart
You will learn to
find the pieces you
thought were lost
You will learn to put
them together again
Life doesn’t care
Spit in the face
of an apathetic world
tell it to shove off
and be happy
Love in spite of
in spite of
divorce and sickness
in spite of everything
You don’t know yet
You don’t realize
how good life can be
how this tearing
will not last
Quietly, a young woman
starts a fresh pot of coffee
and returns to her book.
It is an escape from a life —
from her life, too full of
her own expectations.
Finding love between the pages
proves a far easier task than
taking risks and finding
men who fall short of
the dreams she has for her life.
With a few gurgles,
the coffee is ready and she
lights up a cigarette.
She is making her own life,
despite the pressures to marry.
“Family” doesn’t seem
defined the way it used to be.
Alone in her apartment,
another chapter of the
often read romance novel,
she puffs, she sips.
Someday, she may realize
something she has always known:
This life belongs to her
and there is no right way to live.
Friends become siblings and
expectations melt away.
She has realized her dreams.
There is no expiration on living
your life the way you want.
There is no prerequisite to happiness.
Soon, she will discover how
futile it is to hate herself.
And then she will find love
waiting for her.
The young woman picks up the book
and starts a new chapter and cries.
on being stranded in Alaska
January had been full of
animal dinners and parties
when sadness was setting in
and Lori left suddenly after
and exchange of anger-charged words
I was lost during those cold weeks
that followed and couldn’t keep up
Life rushed by and stood still
I know about the carefully discarded
cigarette butts in bottles of soda
and the mornings of coffee and romance
empty mornings and safe
I had days when I didn’t eat
that spring and the cheap dinners
of tasteless noodles seemed
The pain doesn’t last and Justin
stayed with me until I wasn’t unhappy
anymore which was a long time
Then he went home to his life and
left me to forge my new life from
this strange place
Sometimes I want to forget Lori’s face
but I keep getting it stuck in my head
I had a dream with hundreds of hens
flocking around me and
they all screamed Lori’s name
and I realized that I still love her
despite not being able to hold on enough
to keep her near me
I am floating above this frozen place
this city of refugees lumped together
from many corners of other places
I don’t care anymore about knowing about the
coffee and the cigarettes and the novels
it doesn’t matter that people are happy when
I can’t decide what would make me happy
but I wish the hens would stop reminding me
Maybe It’ll Last
Yes, you are the butch, aren’t you?
Sipping our sodas — bellies full of burritos
Don’t fall on your head, find feet and grab hold of a tiny red car,
yours or mine, it doesn’t matter which. I’m obligated to laugh.
Riding around these cold afternoons, the winter is holding on as best it can,
your head seemed as full as mine of new information,
of disappointments, of distractions, of fear (but I’m not telling).
The newness of new is wearing off quickly, but don’t take one giant step back.
It’s all the same, you’re all the same, I’m all the same,
the characters keep changing, but the plot never does.
I’m starting to attach to people, remind myself of where I meant this to be.
Finding your way with bitter guides is hard.
At least we can jump into a car and run away for an hour.
So, you be the butch, with your harem waiting at home, and I’ll be your sidekick,
the Madonna loving, muscle shirt wearing, swishy fag
who waits for your direction, but still gives orders as if I was your boss.
Don’t report to me or their will be Hell to pay, trust me.