Celebration

Now is the time
to celebrate friendships,
lost and present,
and feast on rich delights.
Drink the finest wine,
and savor, congratulate
all of your sweet successes,
and salty challenges.
Look forward to a bright future,
and take unforeseen risks.
Jump off that cliff,
and fly, fly, fly,
and whatever you you do,
just breathe.

(c) All Rights Reserved

Man Purses (something silly)

So, a friend of mine told me he bought a man purse. A what? Yes, an actual item called a man purse. Now, if a man wants to carry a purse, I have no real problem with that until I start thinking about it. Why not a satchel? What about a backpack? Did you ever consider a briefcase? Why not something like a gym bag or a tote that does not resemble a purse?

I only ask this because it seems to me that it would make your life much easier. Our society does not seem to be ready for men in purses. Then again, I have no problem with transgender individuals, and sometimes they carry purses. Why should I care? Do I feel threatened?

I guess to answer this, yes, I do. I don't care if my friend carries one, and I would even walk with them in day light down a busy street. Am I afraid of being called a queer? Hell, I have been called worse. No, that is not it. I am not sure what it is. I am just attracted to men, manly men. And hey, if I don't want to carry a purse, I won't. And I will let my friends do what they want. That does not make them less of a man. And, I need to get over it. Maybe I should get one after all. Nah, Land's End has the backpack I want.

Fair

Fair


"Life's not fair!" It was the first time
I had heard the words spoken,
an aberration at four years old.
He had that hungry bear look
again. I couldn't stare him down.
His heart beat lunged towards
my rapid breaths. He reeked
of nightmares, scotch and cigars,
unpleasant and grotesque. He owned massive
hands the size of Jupiter: Mine like the moon,
enclosing over me causing the eclipse!

NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

Too late now for God to grant a miracle
as the door closed: no open windows.
I had passed the exit ramp to security,
impossible to retrace steps to a safe haven,
the forbidden, fallen apples from the tree,
unsafe to pick up: unsavory and flavorless,
heat from the wolf devouring my wounded soul,
what was left of it, a memory for my future
casting a scar, cancerous cells raging,
having their way,: growing, growing, growing,
making the unthinkable thinkable, and horrible.

It should have never happened,
that lunar eclipse, his head blocking
the only light visible for my eyes,
one safe haven, my beacon of hope:
the forgotten one buried in the muck.
I would forever travel on slippery slopes,
detour from the expected path, unblemished
on the surface, but underneath? What was left?
I would never be quite whole again, my secret
alter ego, protector from all monstrosities
now nearly drowned. My last chance,
my screaming inner child, hidden,
I faced the wall: cold, cement, and white,
pretending to be anyone, anything but me.

The dance macabre has begun.

(c) 2011

Glue

Glue


The three of us make quite a pair,
me, the third wheel and the glue
that solidifies this treacherous partnership.
I look at Chase, catch his eye, share
a private moment,all the while Lloyd stares
at me, as if I am a Thanksgiving turkey.
He wants to carve my wings, stuff me,
only I keep him at arm’s length,
his sharp fangs unable to puncture my neck,
suck my blood: that little parasite.
Lloyd and Chase live together in a state
of confusion and betrayal, unable to free
themselves of their death grip.

I come along. I am the glue.
I hold everything together
with delicate balancing,
gracefully managing the balance beam
with a double round off, and a perfect dismount.
It’s a secret Chase and I share;
he’s loyal and kind, aware of Lloyd’s deceits
and insecurities, endangering trust
by taking, taking, always taking,
forging new bonds, he thinks, with someone
like me, or Tim, or Paul, or Kevin, or Whomever.

Alliances are tricky, but I am the glue.
I keep Lloyd at a safe, not quite respectful
distance, for respect is a two way street,
and he is unaware how cheap and disposable
he makes me feel, like a newspaper barely read,
facts unremembered, thrown into the trash.
I do not internalize this. I clearly state
what I think of him outright, teasingly,
loathing and enjoying him simultaneously
because I am the glue. He’s stuck
to me, and still I push his paws away.

I pledge allegiance to Chase, with forbidden kisses,
later feeling ashamed, with only slight regret.
Sometimes, I cannot even meet his eyes,
fearing disloyalty I have already committed,
carelessly hurt. See, he cares about mysterious,
subconscious feelings: metaphysical, alluring.

Yet, it’s Lloyd and Chase bonded
in their seething hostility and love,
neither one trusting the other,
both loyal to me, undeservedly.

I am the glue.
I know the full story,
keeping their not so secret desires
and platitudes within
under lock and key.

Fool

Fool

I can see through sapphire dreams,
crystal clear oceans,
crimson sunsets
into the fool's paradise
the forbidden garden
where the centaur lives
feeding on sweet nectar,
and bittersweet strawberries,
whispering to unknown ears:
"You don't know me, but I know you!" --
as if the ruby eyes forget
to peer back, intrinsically
studying, all the while softly suggesting:
"I know you too, possibly
even better than you know yourself!"…
for words need not be voiced
to understand,
to communicate,
to observe.
The truth is as it is,
not what is imagined,
but what is valid,
and you are the centaur --
me, the eyes,
and you have spoken,
while I have listened,
giving yourself.
without protective shields.
I sit patiently, and silently absorb,
and what you know of me
are the observations of a clown,
performing for an audience of one:
you, the one who recognizes
in such a way,
that you can't know me,
for you foolishly reveal yourself
while I just sit and watch,
sit and watch.

Therapy (Revision)

Therapy

Sitting there in your sleek, black suit
you appear so serious, eyes transfixed
on the garbage pouring from my lips,
venomous secrets that had been lying dormant.

I give a sideways glance,
then catch your gaze, as tears begin
to well up. My face burns as
I taste salt and I blush:
embarrassment,
shame,
humiliation.

The cat is out of the bag.
Somehow I feel at least
five pounds lighter.
Your steely look:
is that concern?
Do you really care?
Are you even listening?

I’m muttering gibberish again.
Scarlet truths seek an outlet,
filling the room with complex adjectives.
Thank God there is no mirror;
I must look a mess -
self-conscious and nervous.

I return to your stare as a soft
smile emanates from the ice queen.
You are affected.
It isn't my imagination.
Dark fantasies have taken flight,
fleeing my mind like rats
from a slow, sinking barge.

“He hurt me.
He hurt me.”
I said it again.
“He hurt me.”

That Space Between

That Space Between

You live in that space between
scarlet cynicism and cerulean inclination,
courageous yet vulnerable,
one minute exposing dormant desire,
the next slamming a trap door,
and then all at once
providing me with love and acceptance.

I yearn for your cherished liquid lavender
kisses on downy fields of clover,
soft and sumptuous,
and then you freeze me out
again, when I unknowingly brushed
against your raw awareness.
Your ability to remain calm
even in monstrous moments
fools everyone, fools yourself,
the product of being functioning
despite the disarray around you.
You can push moon beams away,
stolen from the angels at dawn's glow
into honeysuckle lands expansive,
allowing me to believe that anything
is possible. Even this. This polarized
space between.

But then you become clumsy and careless,
trapped in the wells of death,
lacking the freedom, or holding yourself
back to choose your own fate,
a burden you place upon yourself,
permitting success to be your nemesis,
living in your own horror and confusion,
the voices that lead you to no where.

I so desperately want to help,
but the well is too steep
to climb down and pull you up
out of harm's way. I wonder
why people have to suffer the emotional
breakdown, the continuous mind game.
Or is suffering a choice just like any other,
that place you choose between,
causing you to spiral down, down, down
into madness, the great abyss,
unstable on that slippery slope,
falling into damp, darkened caves
where bears hibernate and spiders
prey, because getting caught in choices,
prolonging the agony, rather than allowing
yourself to just be, just be.

The choices have already been made,
and you are the puppet in your own show,
manipulating the strings that hold
you up, but things could turn out differently,
if you allow the opportunity to arise,
and seize the moment, make it
your own, the talented man
who helps others heal, commits
random acts of kindness.

This is all you.
Allow yourself to internalize this, please
but you are not ready yet,
and it's a damn shame,
because all I can do is watch.
It's a damn shame.
A damn shame.

The White Elephant

The White Elephant


Check this out!
I am the white elephant
sitting in the room full of forbidden squabblers.
They will ignore me of course, invisible
to the naked eye, but a pregnant pause
in each of their hearts persists
despite their seemingly oblivious affect.
Bless them!

"Let's discuss your trip!"
"Wasn't the symphony divine last night?"
"Miss Mary looks so much better since she shed that unwanted weight!"

What about her unmarried, pregnant daughter? Or the wife
of the philandering husband? The unspoken son
who has AIDS? The mistress who is sitting
next to her lover's spouse. Or the confidante to all parties
present -- a kleptomaniac.

They weren't stupid. They saw me as I filled the room
with palpable tension, the aberration in their midst,
just left of their glances. Gossip seethingly brews,
but for now under control for this scene
of pleasantries, strained. This grouping,
these friendships. Wait until they depart
to their respective corners,
back to their overly significant
lives and self-righteous platitudes.

"I couldn't believe the gall, when she sat next to her!"
"Her son had over a thousand lovers!"
"I heard he was on drugs."
"Do you think she will forgive his cheating?"
"How much was the jewelry she stole?"

The elephant emerges,
roars its approval.
No more secrets!