recipe found in a winter boot
hurtle the cake.
hurdle the grave.
tell the smallest dog
your smelliest you.
erase the hand erasing
the mouth. move to a distant
memory with your worst
marginalia. or favorite
cousin. journal about it.
type up
your review of the year’s
first snow: a predictably
thrilling sequel
to what the leaves,
not too long ago, said.
then, kiss the snow.
pick up a heaping
handful & smooch it.
feel the snow
give you smoochies back.
listen to it. listen
close. the snow.
each fluttering little note of it
saying, kiss me
& kiss me
here & here.
ode to completion & then some
tonight, i am the worst queer—i hate longing, detest
yearning. right now, i am the worst queer
poet—i don’t want
any synonym for want, any
sinfully great lyric ache. i don’t want to read or write a single
beautiful description
of distance. no.
i will have sex. i will have
close, verbal,
smelly, emotional sex. i will have hotter than a faggy volcano’s
smutty novel sex. & fuck,
if i can’t have it with someone, i’ll have my way
with me. in fact, i’m already
precumming. i’m leaking right into my left hand—
my nondominant hand’s
powered up, & i’m going. i’m upping the speed,
frothing myself forth. i’m getting real friendly
with my foreskin, leaving every lack
behind. i’m loving on
& in my behind. my right pointer’s voyaged
far up my twitchy hole, my hairy legs are raised in the me-scented
air, the whole room’s fragranced by butt
& balls, & i’m watching it all in the full-length mirror.
this creature
so interested in his own nature. this researcher, studying
& collecting data on his pleasure.
i’m at play, i’m the project, i’m both animals
breathing hard.
i’m breath & both hands working hard. i’m hard, i’m hard, i’m my pleasure
pleasing me. i’m my hole, my cock, i’m my cock, my cock,
i’m cock & hole, i’m hole & hole, my cock i’m fuck i’m going to
take a break. let my body say, what. god. agh.
& squirm a bit
while i take some giggly sips from my nightstand water.
while i sigh, delighted.
let my body, impatient, exhale into a fuller
abundance. this moment
not about vexed want, knotted
waiting but a true, green
resting. & just a different breath.
& then i’m set. ready & well-hydrated. one drooly
hand twisting a nipple, the other
droolier hand on my cock. a simpler arrangement
than earlier, but no less kinetic a combo for this
late-night, night-long show.
sweaty & slow, slow & silly, i’m building
up to it seriously slow.
until i can’t. i catch my face in the mirror,
my unpretty grin, the honestly ugly
fun i’m having. look, i don’t need to be stunning,
don’t need a thing, not a fuck fuck i’m
cumming, it’s hitting my neck,
my face, it’s in my mouth, i’m
dripping from my lips,
i’ve got cum-breath, a cum-stache, & i’m grabbing
pics. sending them from my phone
to my soul.
& sometime later,
my soul is cuddling my finally
soft cock. they’re glowing, still, in the stinky bask
of each other. & my soul’s nuzzling close, closer than ever to my cock,
while my cock, already a touch
recharged, says, hey,
do you know the term “philatelist”? i just learned this.
a philatelist is one who collects &/or studies
postal stamps. philatelist, one who practices
philately—doesn’t that sound
kind of like flatulence,
a bit like fellatio? oh,
i bet it comes from french—
why don’t we look it up?
& my soul is nodding
off, he’s starting to make a sound not
unlike flatulence—& loud. but sort of sweet
to those who like him.
mm, says my cock, you’re singing
your songs again.
Postsolsticemoodism
When did they show up, the not so little
hairs on my knee?
Do you, too, have a news anchor
voice going going in your head
whenever you read the back of the cereal box?
Isn’t it literature, the gatorade she left in the other room
the other day?
Hasn’t he sensed the needs of a tree, his favorite oak, at least?
Aren’t we in the traveling part of summer?
How did I stop listening to my need to be high up in a tree,
in any
height of tree, in it, at least?
How are you?
(Staying out of trouble?)
(Keeping a bee?)
Don’t you tell me a claw sandwich
doesn’t sound better
than a finger sandwich, you wouldn’t dare, would you?
If we were to slither now, hither would we go?
Corresponding with the Heterosexuals
Hi, enthused teacher or bewildered student
or concerned parent!
Thank you for emailing out of the blue or
as the French say, out of the bleu.
To answer your urgent & original question,
I am not inspired, ever.
I write just so you will assign/do/
help with—while disapproving of—
all this homework
about me
& grow up
or finally be well-adjusted, capable
of taking out the recycling
on a semi-regular basis while talking to your
semi-handsome neighbor
who’s sitting outside. Ah, the fresh air
becoming hotter & oranger by the minute.
Oh, that’s not a gay thing,
sorry, that’s a planet in deep
doo-doo thing.
To answer your less urgent & unoriginal question, yes.
Your dreams will die & so
will you. But if you’re lucky, you’ll go first.
Meanwhile, someone in Switzerland
is sending their very first email,
now isn’t that a sight for sore eyes. Oh,
a cliché! Quick, let’s revise. Now isn’t that
a kite for sore lives. Much better, n’est-ce pas? Sorry,
I know French
is filth & the gayest of langues. & now
I must go feed my second pug, Symposium.
Yup, that’s a Plato thing.
Oui, that’s a gay thing,
so sorry. Désolé. Je suis vraiment,
vachement désolé.
Quintessence: the Soul (If It Exists)
Ajar.
Aloft.Afar, afoot. Ashore,
atop. Aflutter,
ajar, sometimes a lot.
Then amuck,
adrift. Afire.
Awryly aflame. Asunder,
afucked. & closed
up, or is it down. Sometimes
for a year,
years. Then
afloat, aloft, ajarred afresh.
Anewer aglow.
Astride atrue, across aflew,
awhoevenknew:
something in you
so never closed, forever fucking
abloom, in fact,
even while amiss, adoom.
Unasleep, even
amidst the dullest
miseries.Who knew—this life,
this alive. Agog,
agod. Awash with vowel & you,
committed to
comma &
not yet, or sure, period, but then
right away up
to go alltheway down. To stumble
allaround for a
letter, another.
recipe for courage with a side of hot
increase your daily chapstick application by fifteen
hundred percent.
practice your kinkiest sex
on your frown-frumpiest days.
retreat for at least an hour every night
to be with your butt-soft, ass-tough poems.
apply ever more of your heart
to your mouth—
but don’t forget speaking
is only one form of loving.
if one cat sweater doesn’t suffice, don
on top of it another, larger,
sweaterier cat sweater.
remember that a synonym for your heart
is total babe.
remember that the moon shares
that synonym.
wonder aloud on a park bench in a busy park,
is this poem too moony,
too self-helpy?
accept help
beyond yourself. admit you were wrong
about how good the burgers were at that one place,
they only tasted that good to you
because you were utterly
magnificently stoned.
say the word “vestibule”
five times fast.
for a week, say to everyone you meet, yes i now
spell my name “chanel,”
no it’s still pronounced “chen,”
yeah if you don’t get that, i hate you.
listen to the pomegranate
on the kitchen counter say, you think you know
what a fruit is. you haven’t the foggiest!
become alive
enough to live
your pomegranate faggotries.
understand that your slutty love for words
isn’t always a lovely sluttiness
for truth. recognize that sometimes
& sometimes often
another synonym for your heart
is undeniable asshole
—though undenying this is only the first step.
store your chapsticks well.
say lolz
ever so slowly. be not
only a generous lover
but also a generous love.
know
but don’t dwell on the mountainous
fact that there are just slightly
over four hundred
thousand steps.
know, in the depths
of total babe, that you will, some
very december days, be poemless
& even sweaterless,
but never will you be kinkless.
ode to definitions
froth would be a great name for a band
&probably is. during the week of scheduled merry, mass mirth,
i learned about a band people younger than myself enjoy
& the mirth did burst,
the merry positively frothed
when i watched their latest music video.
how much they danced
just with their hands! the music video
as an art form—revived!
during the supposedly mirth-merriest
time of year, i was not ready to shed my supposings, my position of not
humbug exactly,
but kinda bah, yes.
then, this most kissable song
about outer space (they danced
in their spacesuits!). then, i looked up
the definition of “froth”: a mass of small
bubbles caused by agitation, fermentation, or
some other thing, & otherwise
known as foam. to froth
is to cause or contain this mass of small
bubbles otherwise known as foam &usually overflowing
from a can of soda, beer, or
soul. to foam is to be overly effusive
about a band people younger than yourself enjoy.
i love definitions.
they don’t box me in
except for all the time i’ve lived
in the united states of america since the age of 4.
(since i was 4, not since the united states of america was 4.)
one of my brothers is turning 28 next month
& on the xmas family video call i said, wow.
wow
are we all getting old. & he said, yeah, that’s how time works.
& i was both chapfallen & crestfallen, the definition for both
being the other. i couldn’t understand why
he had to be so factual. i love definitions
but hate facts.
i love definitions that are forever questions
due to my never remembering them,
my always looking them up
or in the middle of wondering about.
this would also describe
my relationship with the spelling of “entrepreneurial.”
entrepreneurially speaking, holidays &
most days, i am irritated.
my other brother turns 27 in the spring.he would be great
in a band, but would never
do that, he’s far too busy pursuing his other creative talents
to financial success & deep fulfillment.
i’m proud of him, though also
irritated, now that he has
barely a thing to justify to our parents,
maybe just his haircut.
i’m proud of the life i’ve made
out of words & fairly adventurous haircuts,
yet i’m irritated with myself
every day. i’m
an artist, meaning a massively small self-esteem & a love for
everything minutely vast. froth, the artist formerly known
as foam!—i love stuff like that. i cherish
how my boyfriend,
a bit older than me, said he’s closest to the tall & quiet
one in the band, though
even taller & quieter,
& i said, definitely
taller, but quieter (??), you’re never quiet,
& he said,
fuck you, i am 8 foot 4 & have never spoken a word.
my favorite definition of mirth,
which happens to be the main one, is gladness or gaiety
as shown by or accompanied with laughter.
gaiety!
can you guess why i love that definition? yes, i am
queer as in fuck you, but i am also gay
as in i don’t know
how to live in this world or why i should
& isn’t that fun.
little bubbles full of feeling.
the holidays—do you ever wish there were more & better
gay holiday movies? do you ever watch a gay movie
because you are gay
& looking for yourself, then looking for other gays,
then looking for yourself, again?
do you ever watch a gay movie & find yourself
happy, even
mirthful, frothing with
yay, gaiety? only for the ending
to be um, utterly ruinous?
do you ever watch yourself
being gay as in person turning
35& the guinness world record holder
for most consecutive nights spent tearful by a scented candle?
i’m not answering that, but thank you for asking.