No left, no right.
Quickest way between two points.
All I see is you,
My mare. My life. My love.
I took a walk down Paper Street
To learn how to make soap
His name was Chuck.
We shared a beer;
I still remember the frothiness
Greeting my lips and
Singeing bitterness on my taste buds.
I said “Chuck. Why do we fight?”
Chuck looks down between his legs
And says, “To struggle.”
I drink it in, the two words
That were originally addressed to his
I ask “What makes you write the way you do?”
He says, “No else does. And because I can”
I swallow the bottle neck and contemplate
How a man makes me an asphyxiophile
With a short story called
I asked Chuck if that was weird. That he can
Tell me to hold my breath
While tells me how Middle Eastern men
He says “No. It would be weird if you
Wanted to see a Middle Eastern man
I bite my fingernail until it almost bleeds
As I try to block out the image of
As I say goodbye.
I close my eyes, breathe in deep,
And click my red Air Maxes three times
And I wake up to four bony knuckles
Smashing against my mandible.
Why do we fight?
To mask our homoerotic conversations with
Our favorite authors?
To be one of the guys? To be gay without being
I don’t know and I’m not sure if I’ll