Quentin Clingerman Has Died

The winds are picking up
blowing trash into my yard
and announcing a storm that will
fall apart before it arrives.
The worn out flags and crosses
still look as majestic as they did,
but I’m opening by insides
and filling my pages with secrets.
I’m waiting for critiques
by entrenched folks who think
too much about the sex lives
of other people, of my sex life.
I want to reveal myself again,
try to make people see my words
and my techniques and stop worrying
about who I’ve kissed or
who I haven’t, but wanted to.
I want to edit volumes of poetry
about God and America and guns,
poems filled with the lies we tell ourselves
and enjoy them because the author
knew how to write the words beautifully.
I don’t want to read the judgement.
It starts to rain and I’m surprised;
I thought the rain would miss us.

Notes

Written 21 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Quentin Clingerman Has Died” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

Gleditsia triacanthos

for a friend

You were beautiful once, and maybe you still are.
I rarely revisit those moments when we became adults
on Sunday mornings, skipping church for each other.
I don’t think about the length of your neck
and I don’t dwell on the smell of you skin.
I’ve turned you upside down, exposed the roots
and tried to understand how they worked,
rubbing the soil into the grooves of my skin.
I don’t want to return to your kindness or cruelty,
and I don’t want to put you back how I found you;
Your branches are thorny and I’d end up hurt again.
So, I’ll repaint the photos I have of you in new colors
and we can pretend that there were no feelings.
And I’ll send you copies of the new versions
and you can pretend that you don’t remember.

Notes

Written 18 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Gleditsia triacanthos” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Pieces of Dissected Butterflies

I left Tulsa when my friends had died
and we were all set adrift, angry and lost,
wondering if staying meant more of us would die.
I tried to go to Dallas, to a life I wanted.
They boys swarm thickly there,
and I still wonder if my days would have been
spent in the beds of strangers if I’d gone there.
I’ve always longed for the beds of strangers,
to feel taken for granted and awkward.

In moving, I detoured, finding myself in Anchorage,
near the place where my dad spent his youth,
carried on winds I rode for too long, or just long enough.
I was not qualified for life in Alaska,
not qualified for the men who had gone there.
But I was determined to find myself,
or to find Dad in the places where his friends still lived.
His youth was left in an Alaska that no longer exists,
so my mind found new reasons to keep me there.

I found the spaces I understood,
the pockets of the city that seemed familiar,
bookstores filled with other refugees,
of lives that had started to drift.
My mind invented the things I didn’t know
and the people around me became gods.
I didn’t question that, and I formed a religion.
Their lives were spent being perfect
in ways I could never spend my own life.
They are still gods; I pray to them in darkness,
my soul crying out to be acknowledged.

On cold mornings, I liked to price books,
scanning their barcodes and attaching a sticker.
I would think about my friends,
wonder about the shapes of their bodies,
and worry that they could hear my thoughts.
I’d worry that I was saying the thoughts aloud,
and I’d wait for Kevin to go upstairs to inject his insulin
so I could stop thinking about his waist.
I’m still thinking about his waist.
The decade I’ve had to reflect has made me more curious
and sometimes I worry that he can still hear my thoughts.

I have been dissecting butterflies,
stained glass wings pulled apart
by unwieldy spinning steel fingers
as I think about beauty and conformity,
praying to my gods, mindlessly offering
the insects as a tribute.
I didn’t intend this massacre
and in the lawn lie the tiny lifeless parts.
In the hot sun of the places of my youth,
I don’t have new shapes to fill my mind,
new boys to think about.
I dwell on the boys of my past.

I’m reaching back, feeling myself grasping
for people I can’t always recognize,
the names apparitions in my mind.
Some of the gods’ faces have merged & morphed.
I’m taking the ones I wanted the most,
or the ones I wanted to be the most,
and placing their pieces where I can sort them
and try to hold onto them in my mind.
I’m still thinking about waists and hips and shoulders,
still wondering about the firmness of skin.

They haven’t seen me wondering,
their lives have pulled them toward much happier places,
some growing beautifully in Alaska,
others found scattered by the winds
that had first deposited them near me.
The butterflies are whispering secrets,
understandably warning each other about me.
In new cities and states, in their new lives,
they think about the times we spent together
and I go on thinking about their bodies.

Notes

Written 12 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Pieces of Dissected Butterflies” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

Duncan, Oklahoma

His fingers skip over piano keys,
his eyes close to take in the moment
or to imagine me more handsome.
He takes me to a dark restaurant
and I preoccupy my mind with
the notion that he is trying to hide me,
ashamed that he has made such an error.
I cannot enjoy the food or the conversation,
worried about returning to his house,
which he keeps too clean.
Why is it so clean?
Does he see me?
Does he know what I’m thinking?
The music he played seemed sad
when I thought about it later,
sitting in a car still scented with newness.
Am I messing this up? What is this?
The car is too clean and I don’t know
where to put my words.
He’s speaking with an accent of anticipation,
using phrases that clarify his disappointment
to me, even though I am not listening.
His eyes were closed as he played the piano.
Was he thinking about how much he wanted me?
Was he thinking about older men? Younger?
I don’t know how to be what he was expecting; I try.
I talk about my youth, my immaturity,
the words exposing the distance between us.
He’s thirty-six years old, twice my age.
We return to the sterile house, the gaps widening.
I stay, unclear why I have come here.
The night is uncomfortably quiet and cold,
I sleep in his house, in a guest room.
I drive three hours back to my own home in the morning,
back to a house that is never clean,
back to a life that isn’t filled with unspoken longing.
For weeks, the emails stop. I was not enough,
I didn’t know how to be enough,
did not understand what enough meant.
I regret being me when I arrived at his house,
convince myself that I have orchestrated a deceit.
He plays his piano at home alone, he closes his eyes
and thinks only about the music.

Notes

Written 1 October 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Duncan, Oklahoma” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

This is been an interesting week.  I’ve been able to think about what it means to be proud, as LGBT Pride Month draws to a close.  What is it about being a gay person that is worthy of pride.  So many non-LGBT folks misunderstand the whole issue.  Pride is not just about loving who you are.  That is certainly important, and factors greatly into the concept of gay pride.  The other element is loving who you are in spite of the oppression of society at large.  It’s about saying that being authentic is more important than letting society’s negative messages dictate the aspects of one’s life.  Straight people don’t have to think about it in the same terms.  And now I’ve opened up a can or worms.

Oppression.  It’s hard to explain this concept to those who don’t have to deal with it.  I did not choose to be gay.  It hardly bothers me, but it wasn’t like I was offered options when I was born.  I am what I have always been.  That said, the fact that I am gay factors into so many of the decisions I’ve had to make in my life.  Things have changed in recent years, but I still couldn’t just plan a vacation to anywhere on earth I wanted to go.  I’d need to research and find out how hostile a country is to the LGBT community before doing so, otherwise I could find myself in a situation.  I have to consider carefully which jobs to apply for, as it is still legal in most places (Oklahoma included) to fire a person for being gay.  I have kept my distance from the church I grew up in, and where I would still attend.  I don’t want to make other people uncomfortable, and they would.  When I read a magazine or watch TV commercials, the message is always that straight people can show their affection in public and gay people cannot.  Well, 99.9% of the time, and even then only in places that are safe for the message.  If it ever came up, I currently have the right to marry the person I love, but that is a very new thing.  And it’s another place where people misunderstand how rights work.  I don’t understand what people mean when they say that gay people being given the same right to marry as straight people is giving us “more rights.”  It’s really just the same, and the idea that I always had the right to marry as long as I married a woman is dismissive and ridiculous.   I would love to raise children, but it can be hard to find a place to adopt children as a gay person.  Some ignorant people think it matters, or that gay people cannot have the values necessary to raise children.  That’s just misinformation used to prevent children in need from receiving the homes they need.  And now we are starting to see government-sanctioned discrimination, specifically those who offer goods or services to the public being allowed to exclude gay people for simply being gay.  There are multiple issues I have with this whole thing.  First, if you offer things to the public, you don’t get the right to pick and choose your customer.  These people denying cakes to gay couples aren’t likely asking their other customers questions to determine if their beliefs line up.  And that makes the whole thing arbitrary.  If a company want to only bake cakes for Baptist weddings, or for Catholic weddings, that would be a business model that allowed for an exclusive clientele and would not be discriminatory.  My other big issue with these “religious freedom” people is that refusing to do business with gay people actually negates their argument.  Jesus did not say to love your neighbor, except that one over there.  He did not say be in the world, not of the world, unless you see a gay guy and then don’t even be in the world.  If you are saying that serving those you don’t understand goes against your beliefs, then I don’t understand what beliefs you are even trying to defend.  It’s not Christianity.  It seems that there is a new ‘Murica religion, based on the idea that if you are not white, straight, and wrapped in an American flag, you are the enemy.  It’s a cult, not a religion.  Straight people don’t have to deal with things like this, specifically straight white people.  And when I hear people talk about “Straight Pride Month” or things of that nature I get frustrated.  Every month is “Straight Pride Month,” and y’all don’t have to fight for dignity.

And so it is sometimes hard to keep my head up as a gay person.  The world sometimes comes for us, and being proud is about saying “not today Satan.”  It’s about showing that what other people think of us is not our problem, and it is about expressing our true selves.  Because if we stop fighting and stop showing that we exist, we will be slowly asked to get back into the box and hidden away again.  Things have been getting better for a while now, and I hope that these recent slips backward are just a blip, but we have a long way to go.

In other news, I got the new part of the flowerbed mulched.  It’s looking good.  I will eventually need to add edging of some sort.  I don’t really know what I want there.  The crapemyrltes I planted have started showing new growth, and the roses are continuing to do well.. mostly.  The JFK & Copper roses did not make it this year, and I’ll just take that as an opportunity for new roses next Spring.  I’d love to find a Herbert Hoover or a Mark Twain, or maybe even a Mme. Alfred Carrière climbing rose.  I did get a couple of arborvitae, which I had intend to not plant until fall, but they were a good price and I don’t mind keeping a close eye on a couple for the summer.

I’ve started feeling more like getting back to the business of living my life.  It’s remained a challenge for me, but I’m trying.  Just staring off into the distance doesn’t solve anything.

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Seahorses

We struggle for life, gasp for water
and we die, wriggling and contorting into position.
Our dried carcasses serve as amusement.
Fifty years we’ve been on display,
dust gathering in our rigid and bony structures,
souvenirs for those whose lives were more exciting.
They pull us out to reminisce about their wild youth,
our magic now stripped by time,
and they talk to each other about us and how they miss us.

Some of them forget about us,
about how we thrived in the waters before being rescued,
collected as memorials.
They don’t know about the vibrant reefs like we do,
about the others who didn’t make it or we carried back
to other grey places where they too would be forgotten.
Many of us are labeled for easy identification,
classified and sorted so onlookers can gaze at our husks
in wonderment or disgust… or a bit of both.
Our tiny bodies have become too numerous,
too many have been broken or discarded,
but most of us will fade into the dark obscurity, lost.

The new fashion has been to provide a tank,
to adopt a bit of our habitat and collect several specimens,
lives lived with names and memorialized
as members of families, temporary and disposable.
We exist as novelty, and still a part of their youth,
a part of that colorful past they will talk about one day,
sharing the photos with their children and grandchildren.
They’ll talk about us, about how much they love us,
pulling us from the drawers and boxes to prove themselves,
they’ll show videos they took of the tanks filled with water,
convinced that they are showing great love for us.
But when they are no longer beings asked to show off
their specimens, their carefully curated collections,
they’ll put us away again and go back to their real lives.

We will keep wishing that our dried bodies would stop
finding their way into souvenir shops of those who
do not want to dip into the water and experience our lives.
We don’t want to live in tanks either, playthings of people
who do not understand that our beauty has not been for them,
that our magic was meant for ourselves.

The sun is coming up on the horizon,
Christopher Street is quieter than it used to be,
and I wonder if a generation is coming
who will realize the world that was fought for,
and I wonder if they will long for the days
when they were precious trinkets of other people’s youth.

Notes

Written 1 July 2009 in Anchorage, Alaska & 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Seahorses” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

Open your arms (and welcome Love)

A fervent plea to those people I’ve seen my Church family morphing into, slipping away from me, from Love. A prayer for the many who’ve seen the backs of their loved ones too often, shivering alone because they were misunderstood or openly judged for being human.

My neighbors turned towards themselves
and forgot my face.
Backs towards me with multitudes of assumptions.
My heart feels the hymns,
feels the joy still.
I’m unchanged.
My image fails me; refuses to take the shape of the mold
[the idyllic life]
the person I was supposed to be.
I’m neither broken nor lost.
I’m Love’s child, regardless of whispers and raised eyebrows.
My home,
our home.
I never felt so unwelcome from a family, silently, passively.
Judgments. Silence.
Silence.
From my perch high above the elders,
the deacons, the little old ladies
who wait for death on the third pew from the back,
my mind stretches, finding thoughts far from my body,
dreamily.
I welcome judgment.
Don’t pray for me in anger
or sorrow
or disappointment.
Don’t welcome be back from depravity.
Be family; be true to Love.
Love. Love.
Open your arms — not only to me,
not to selfish or petty concerns of mine,
open your arms because they should be open.
Because they are there for welcoming,
uncrossed and warm,
welcome the children, your family,
forgotten innocents,
the joyful, the content,
the exuberantly happy,
the depressed, and the angry.
Keep you arms open to those whose lives you don’t understand,
whose lives are full of light and laughter,
but cannot find comfort in rigid conformity.
I’ll join them too — march with them
into the auditoriums across distances,
across situational divides.
Be Love.
Kiss your neighbor on the forehead and have them over for dinner.
There is nothing important like Love.
There is nothing but Love.
There is Love.
Love.
And Love will take our hands — yours, mine,
the multitudes huddled in the rain.
We’ll find ourselves then.
We’ll free ourselves and be family again.
And selfish concerns and trivial differences will never be able to keep us apart.

8.21.2008Continue Reading