I Hung Around

I hung around a guy tonight.
He was really horny.
I was really horny too.
He was kind and cool,
and honestly,
pretty handsome.
I knew that should I want,
I could have him, we could fck.
I would know exactly what to do.
I know how to satisfy people,
anyone,
deeply,
pleasurably, heavenly.
But as I said,
he was a man,
so I had zero interest in him.
It’s moments like this that I know
I’m gay.
Horniness meets horniness.
It’s there for the taking.
But I do not take it, nor do I care.

And so I laid down in bed and
thought about women
and touched myself.

She Sees

She sees I’m looking
for love.
And she’s scared.
Scared that someone could
look for love that bad,
that the world could make
someone so hopeful,
though so needy,
held on this cosmic ocean,
a sand grain
whirled before infinity and
annihilation.
She sees the annihilation
that my heart beats
every time she looks at me,
into my eyes,
and she sees all that’s been
lost and all that will be lost.
She’s scared, so she stops
looking and forgets in time.
But then time forgets her
and everything else.

Sometimes At 45

This is a sad poem.
These are sad days these days.
Well, to be honest, these days
are a mix of incredibly fulfilling
and happy days, the happiest
I’ve experienced in my life, but then
sad days from dwelling in the pain
of a breakup, hearing the things
she said, over and over, in my head,
things she said to question my gender,
my legitimacy as a woman, and as a
gay woman — that I was not the real,
authentic deal for her.
So, sometimes I wonder, if I die in my
45th year, would she, wherever she’s at
when she receives the news,
would she breakdown?
Would she tear her living room apart,
smash furniture, throw knickknacks
against the wall until they shattered
into pieces of glass or porcelain?
Or, would she be with friends and drop
to her knees, crumble into their arms
in a sobbing, inconsolable state?
Or, would she just turn to her daughters
in a state of shock and say stoically,
“Nova’s dead”, then breakdown as
they watched her — scared and confused
and hurt themselves?

Or maybe, she simply wouldn’t care?

Scary

It’s a scary thing to admit,

maybe a scary thing to feel,

although physically, it feels

really good to get there.

Often these days, very late at night,

after I’ve done like eight

or nine lines of coke,

I’m able to finally lay there and

feel calm,

feel cool,

feel loved,

forget about you,

forget who you are,

forget that you exist,

forget that you no longer love me,

and then I’m able to

dumbly, mindlessly, numbly,

fall asleep and sleep good,

sleep in peace.

People don’t typically think of

cocaine working this way

and maybe that’s why this is

scary…

that this is what it’s evolved to.

This is what love is to me now.

There Again

I won’t go there again.
I won’t.
It will be avoided.
I hate it.
I don’t like having to avoid
a place,
but I will.
The road you live on won’t
exist in my world.
I won’t go by your house
hoping and dreaming and
angry
late at night.
Looking at your window,
knowing the mass of coiled
gold hair mess behind it.
I can’t.
I’ll choose emptiness and
also fullness with strangers,
with the moonlight above
country fields near our town
cuz it is late and I’m lonely
and I drove out there to
breathe the scent of oak trees
instead.
I want your scent, body heat,
curves, accidental brush
of soft skin and your
muffled snores.
Sometimes I’ll blow coke,
lots of it,
and it will comfort me,
a hall of poets and angels
gathered.
But some other nights I won’t.
Sometimes I’ll just lay still
in my bed with the watercolor
painting of midnight on the
walls,
feel my passionate heartbeat,
strong and rigorous but also soft,
and I’ll just be still,
knowing stillness in night
while awake
is sacred.
Us ushering ourselves to the
hall of death.

I want to be tough, but more
importantly,
I want to be honest.
So I will.
That is how I’m going to live.

Weak In Her Arms

I’m taller than her.

She knows how to hold me

in a womanly way.

She’s held a tall woman before.

She’s an athlete.

I think that helps her with

confidence and cool calmness.

She’s stronger than my last

girlfriend and my last girlfriend

was pretty strong.

I really like strong women.

Swoon. It’s my achilles.

I love feeling weak in my

babe’s arms.

What I Remember

What I remember from her
is just something visceral.
Something in the body.
Raw. Ancient.
Long life. Sentient. Awake.
Star stuff.
I know we were a shitshow.
Bad words and hurtful things
said, done, and felt
to each other.
But somehow all I remember
is powerful, visceral, psychic,
physical, soulful
feelings.
Well, just a feeling.
One feeling, one unified feeling.
It feels very similar to
sunshine on your skin,
on an early October morning
in Texas,
in autumn of the northern
hemisphere
on Earth.

Do you know the feeling I’m talking
about?
When the sun touches you and
it feels your skin,
it fills your soul.

Ice Cream In Angel Land

In Angel Land,
sometimes we eat
ice cream in the morning.
And sometimes that is
after we’ve had
blissful, woman to woman
morning sex,
with soft skin and gaspy moans
melted into each other.
And sometimes
we eat ice cream
when we haven’t had
that blissful morning sex
but we wanted it,
so we take a deep, still moment
to savor the rich and sweet
cream instead.
Either way,
the ice cream in Angel Land,
on a sunny, rainy, or cloudy morning
is always
quite a delightful experience.

The Oak Tree Down The Block

The oak tree down the block,
diseased and old,
sent the cat,
diseased and old,
on his way.
The tree called me down the street
to take a strip of its bark
back into the house,
so the spell of diseased and old
could be broken.
And then like that,
in a matter of weeks,
the cat whom I had
lived with and loved for
seventeen years
passed away.
Then one day,
eleven days after the cat had died,
the oak tree conveyed unto me
on an afternoon walk;
that those seventeen years
I’d spent living and loving the cat
had been given back to me,
that time doesn’t always work
the way humans think it does.