Blinders
No left, no right.
Just straight.
Quickest way between two points.
Stallion-ized, bronco-ed
All I see is you,
My mare. My life. My love.
Fists with a Side of Asphyxiation and Ejaculation
I took a walk down Paper Street
To learn how to make soap
With my
Imaginary friend.
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
Penis.
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
“Guts.”
I asked Chuck if that was weird. That he can
Tell me to hold my breath
While tells me how Middle Eastern men
Jack off.
He says “No. It would be weird if you
Wanted to see a Middle Eastern man
Jack off.”
I bite my fingernail until it almost bleeds
As I try to block out the image of
Masturbating Jordanians
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
Gay?
I don’t know and I’m not sure if I’ll
Ever know.
Living Necrophilia
She loves nothing.
She sits upon her stoop,
Hollow and breathless.
Vacant face, no smile and no frown.
It is this shell of a being that I want.
It is the emptiness that infatuates me.
A ghost of which I yearn;
I love the way she lacks.
