listen mother, he punched the air: I am not your son dying
the day fades and the starlings roost: a body’ s a husk a nest of goodbye
his wrist colorless and soft was not a stick of chewing gum
how tell? well a plastic bracelet with his name for one. & no mint
his eyes distinguishable from oysters how? only when pried open
We want pictures of everything
Below your waist, and we want
Pictures of your waist. We can't
Talk right now, but we will text you
Into coitus. All thumbs. All bi
Coastal and discreet and masculine
And muscular. No whites. Every
Body a top. We got a career
To think about. No face. We got
Kids to remember. No one over 29.
No one under 30. Our exes hurt us
Into hurting them. Disease free. No
Drugs. We like to get high with
The right person. You
Got a girl? Bring your boy.
I was born in Boston in
1949. I never wanted
this fact to be known, in
fact I’ ve spent the better
half of my adult life
trying to sweep my early
years under the carpet
and have a life that
was clearly just mine
and independent of
the historic fate of
my family. Can you
imagine what it was
like to be one of them,
to be built like them,
to talk like them
to have the benefits
of being born into such
a wealthy and powerful
American family. I went
to the best schools,
Please! Keep
reading me
Blake
because you’ re going to make
me the greatest
poet of
all time
Keep smoothing
the stones in the
driveway
let me fry an egg
on your ass
& I’ ll pick up
the mail.
I feel your
absence in
the morning
& imagine your
instant mouth
let me move
in with you —
Travelling
wrapping your limbs
on my back
I grow man woman
Child
I see wild wild wild
I was 6 and
I lost my snake.
The table shook
I can do better
than this
and shambled
to the kitchen
to the scene
of the crime
I was green
I put my sneaker
down, little shoe
I felt the cold
metal tap
my calf
moo and everything
began to change.
I am 6
turned into lightning
wrote on the night
At 6, I was feathers
scales, I fell into
the slime of it, lit
Because I must walk
through the eye-shaped
shadows cast by these
curved gold leaves thick
atop each constructed
palm tree, past displays
of silk scarves, lit
silhouettes of blue-bottled
perfume — because
I grip, as though for the first
time, a paper bag
of french fries from McDonald's,
and lick, from each fingertip,
If there is a word in the lexicon of love,
it will not declare itself.
The nature of words is to fail
men who fall in love with men.
It will not declare itself,
the perfect word. Boyfriend seems ridiculous:
men who fall in love with men
deserve something a bit more formal.
The perfect word? Boyfriend? Ridiculous.
But partner is... businesslike —
we deserve something a bit less formal,
much more in love with love.
This may sound queer,
but in 1985 I held the delicate hands
of Dan White:
I prepared him for burial; by then, Harvey Milk
was made monument — no, myth — by the years
since he was shot.
I remember when Harvey was shot:
twenty, and I knew I was queer.
Those were the years,
Levi’ s and leather jackets holding hands
on Castro Street, cheering for Harvey Milk —
elected on the same day as Dan White.
The old man
drew the line
for his son,
the executive:
“I don’ t want you spending money on me!
(not as long as there are fathers)”,
the line ageless
as the independence of time.
Musters tears
and overflows
the inner ear,
yet does not matter.
It can not cure frailty.
I
My wife is ill!
And I sit
waiting
for a quorum
II
Fast ride
his horse collapsed
Now he saddled walked
Borrowed a farmer’ s
unbroken colt
To Richmond
Richmond How stop —
Arnold’ s redcoats
there
III
Elk Hill destroyed —
Cornwallis
carried off 30 slaves
Jefferson:
Were it to give them freedom
he’ d have done right
IV
Latin and Greek
my tools
to understand
humanity
