Tease a cat with string
One way to train a human
How to be a toy
I don’t like oranges.
Too many seeds.
The unfortunate connection to Anita Bryant.
Too much trouble to eat
Too many bad memories from when I came out as gay
Still, I think about the pie that was mashed into her face
A small part of me smiles.
I wonder if they used orange cream
I crave the anonymity that comes with urban living
To be lost among thousands of people
To have anything that I need only a few blocks away
In any direction I choose to turn
Appeals to the city dweller within me
And yet, I always return to the water.
I seem to be ridiculously happy when I stand on the beach
And look out on a great expanse of water.
The vastness of the world I’ve not explored becomes real.
It reminds me that there are always going to be places that I have never been.
This is not a bad thing.
It means that life is always full of options.
The promise unspoken
That comes as the water laps against my bare feet,
As I watch the sun set on another day,
Help me get through the night
And take on the next day
And what may come with it.
Bonsai. Pruned beauty.
Little shears and tools replace
Chainsaw havoc. Sigh
I keep many of my friends on a shelf.
It’s easier to visit them
As often as needed
Loving and flawed
Just the way I like my men
Chubby, brilliant and intuitive,
My first literary crush
Fashion crazy best friend to every gay man
Lovely and exhausting
Conan of Cimmeria
Noble yet self-centered
A thief that one can usually trust
Sad and committed to his people
His love for Danilo gave me hope for a love of my own
The Lady Jessica
Duty above all else
Love is the first duty that anyone is owed
The odd little boy who takes everything in stride
This is a friendship only recently renewed.
All of these and so many others give my life more depth and meaning than it could possibly have had without them.
I'm not happy with one, but I'm tossing it out here just the same.
She caught herself sizing up the guys in the bar based on how they played pool.
It was not so much how well they played, but how they moved when they lined up a shot.
They all used the cue like it was an extension of their manhood.
That was to be expected.
This was hot enough, but the ones who danced a little as they moved around the table, who had a little shimmy in their hips, an unconscious shake to their butts as they leaned over the small, green field scattered with round soldiers excited the living hell out of her.
Sure, she was in her fifties now. These little moves should not be the deciding factor as to who won the rewards she still felt confident enough to offer.
Yet, the thrill of just watching,
Of doing a little shopping,
Of visually squeezing the fruit to see which one was ripe enough to sweeten her tongue when she took a bite, was too much to make her stop.
It took her back to days in the past,
The high school days or the heady freedom of those first years of college,
When she used to choose a boy to love based on the way he made love to a pinball machine.
As she pushed off her stool to move in on tonight’s lucky man,
A predatory smile beginning to burn her lips,
She knew deep within that there was a place in everyone’s life for a little bit of nostalgia.
His mind is a place where a dense fog rules.
He feels too much.
He knows too much,
Yet the clouds in his head keep him safe.
Each morning, he he comes out of his room,
Goes down the stairs,
Sits in the shade of his mother’s porch to watch his flower grow.
The flower would be different each day,
Whichever one his mother could find that was thriving
Each in a pot small enough to rest easily on his little plastic table.
He would sit in his chair and gaze at his flower.
Today it was a crocus.
She brings him breakfast.
He eats without thinking, chewing.
Never taking his eyes from the petals.
The dirt at the base of the stem.
He watches things grow.
The movement of the cells as they divide holds him.
It helps him break away from the fear of what hides within. All day, he sits and watches his flower.
At night he goes inside.
Up the stairs.
Into his room.
To live once again within his clouded mind.
I missed the first three days due to technical difficulties.
I was never quite sure which came first, simple lust for men or the consuming passion for men in pants.
The beginnings of these then-strange thoughts lay within the pages of the Sears Christmas Wishbook, circa 1969.
My lazy parents handed me this tome in November and said, “Make a list.”
So I did.
Toys and science sets.
Left off was the very real desire for one each of the men in the clothing section.
Especially the guys in khaki slacks, faces plastered with alluring, inviting smiles.
I was to learn that those smiles were as fake as their provocative poses.
The kid I was, the one who had just kissed his first girl and found it yucky had no idea then that this was so.
All I know is that I began to pay attention, to look around me at a world suddenly full of men.
Men in trousers.
I was already planning on a trip to Micheal's today when I opened my daily astrology email and found this:
"The day belongs to you, STEVE, and you will probably be proud of yourself today. If you have been trying to focus on a creative project for some time, it will most likely be very easy. The people close to you will be very interested in what you are trying to accomplish and will give you all the space you need to attain this goal. This will be a very satisfactory day for you!"
I guess that I now have no choice. To paraphrase a couple of movie priests from the 70's, "The power of Crafts compels you!"