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Showing posts from February, 2017

White Whale

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Well, that’s it… I’m so gay. It’s been an odyssey. For years I’ve navigated minefields of anxiety, carrying backbreaking loads of guilt like millstones. I’ve grappled with monsters: my mother’s rejection, my father’s silent disdain, and my religion’s promise of an eternity of torment. Those claws and fangs no longer instill my heart with dread. It started with violence, a fight in front of the Pleasure Box, my busy South Beach club. It was quick business: two untrained testosterone geysers tossing fisticuffs beneath the marquis amongst the gawkers and paparazzi I never let inside. Beneath the glow of neon chasers, I recognized one fighter. I hadn’t seen him since leaving high school fifteen years ago, but nobody else possesses his pouty-lipped sneer and perpetual self-amusement.  “Luis?” His swimming pupils scanned my face. “We went to Central together. Don’t you recognize me?” “I am a little looped.” He straightened his ruffled jacket. I lit a Lucky Strike, drew it deep, and lowered…

Hacking the Genome of Flow Ted Talk

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Haggling Aboard My Charon

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If there is a world, let me be in it:
I repeat that oath in the leaky grotto,
sworn seven days ago to the one whose ashes
I carry now in a box aboard the ferryboat.

Turmoil extends across our passage
like my seasick stomach churning.
I clutch the frigid rail, afraid to tip
into the sea foam’s moon’s reflection.

Pitching and yawing we arrive mid-channel,
so I fit my brass key into the purposeless lock,
for what do you steal from a grieving man
with a box of ashes and a ghoulish promise?

A spray of gelid brine paralyzes me,
reminding me of when I last kissed your lips,
when I wished my blood could resurrect you:
one useless memory just postponing your delivery.

My hand thrusts into the cedar box to toss
fistfuls of your dust into the rolling tide,
wondering if a leap into icy water would forever
render us apart or bring us back together.





Nice Guy™ Meets Supergirl

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Upon a bridge she stood, skin kissed by sweat,
a white romper, naked shoulders, lace spaghetti straps.
Her tiara necklace jingles, and I like, Pavlov’s dog,
starving, my mouth a lake, swallow in response.

She I can assemble, from my vast pornographic collage:
Amazons; mannequins; and chopstick-prodded nyotaimori models,
nipples hidden by scallop shells as businessmen snatch fish
from refrigerated flesh, so her daughter’s voice

startled my gaze to her sunbathed cheeks. Inked upon her T-shirt,
bold words fading: “I am a girl. So, what’s your superpower?”
“One day,” she informed, “I will be President. Like Hillary,
Not a robot. I am human. My too-happy laughter is fine.”

Her mother’s smile testifies a recipe of certainty and pride,
and ashamed I realize the hands holding Supergirl down are mine.