Here and now we are children,
of mice and monorails, eyes wide
at the castle gates, first sighting this
street from my father’s shoulders, I
walk you to Tomorrowland to
so many stories of Yesterday, and
hurt is a wave rinsing over,
consider the way Grandma
loved It’s a Small World, study
all the drowned pennies and
pretend one was ours, time
nothing but a skein of silk
billowing on, and here lands
the overlap, I am a boy
chaperoned by a man learned
in the dual carrying of
griefs and hopes, and
salt carves rivers down my jaw.

We press our palms into place
and imbue it with magic, the
scrape of a city in the dusk of
my twenties, the moonlit beach
where a porn star confessed
to me he feels his grandfather
standing naked amongst the
waves, the park of artifice,
the orange-countered diner
with the remarkable eggs,
this is our place, we insist,
stamp our names in ink we
were promised is permanent,
but, hush, we know better,
say nothing.

In the winter, my bitter search
for words to give my father
at the golden retriever who
time crumpled in his hands,
only to tell him I know dogs
don’t live forever, but
I hoped he would, and
the record scratched, looping
back for mothers and summers
and every other remarkable,
impermanent magic.

Life’s half the battle, a
whisper from the walls, I
bask alongside time and
all its many iterations,
reassuring, isn’t it, the way
the truth will always echo,
squeeze my eyes shut and
there I am at all the endings –

I am the heaving chest
on a yoga mat, roaring weakly
into the empty apartment, fresh
believer that my world is flat, I
claw at the darkness and wail
for help, pity like a blueberry
pressed into eggshell linen
for the man I hear yelling
his name, and

I am a beer, sun-drenched
on a patio among the red bricks
of a city we share in name only,
reading the news, from my Dad,
swallowing tears and losing the
arm-wrestle to disbelief, every
mom should live forever, I
yearn to thrash and break, tear
the sky like an old towel,
demand better, demand more.

My sister rolls her eyes, but
I insist that she promise – if
we ever fight, leave wounds
unanswered, and I am
crushed by the piano, dangling
ever overhead – she will
remember, with more pages,
we’d have closed the braid,
finished the melody, brought
those chords right on home,
there’s always more, always.

A lover leaves bruises and
eleven years later calls to
ask what it all meant, the
turntable continues, needle
waiting, but we remember
the way it goes, there’s
more story, always, more
to be said, yelled, whispered,
and – sometimes – sifted
from the stillness of the echoes.

Well, me oh my, I
borrow my days like
some well-loved guitar,
the acoustic strum and
how it rescues the room,
tie a new string for every
year, all its glories and
scars, close my eyes
and hum, lips pressed
in a smile, or a secret,
every chorus brings me
closer to myself –

I line up my polaroids,
try to trace the threads
of time, pause to listen,
does melancholy sing
somewhere in the eaves
of my being? But, ah,
I shrug and grin, musing
at the idea of all these
selves sharing a room, how
glad they’d all be to hold,
in their palms, the promise
of so much becoming,
a one-man relay, I
am a thousand poems
in a constant color,
golden orange and
spilling warmly into
the room.

Nostalgia is a papercut
until we learn to
visit those pages
without trying to stay, I
love those yesterdays,
but, my God, the sun
just broke through
before the rain even
knew to stop, and
my fingertips will devote
hours trying to write
this moment into some
slapdash permanence,
already gone and
giving way, flight
and the lovely return.

Strange, the way
memory rakes across my sands,
a moon has its mysticisms, rolls
right in then slips away, and
there you are on my shore,
visceral, vivid, I –

Can’t quite explain my nostalgia
for those days, your prep cook
chapter in Chinatown, guess I
remembered to forget it ’til now,
shelling clams, shoestring
wrapped around the cover of
your knife in your bag, on
some train, the sweat
on your brow, and
TV on my couch, the
scratching of legs, make
a joke and then turn
to find you sleeping.

Tell you the truth, I have
kept my mind on a short leash,
never to dwell among
rose petals, gentle mornings, the
very moments, tender, hopeful,
that kept me treading water in your
orbit, easier to document the lessons
spelled in scar tissue, but
time is saltwater, eroding
the sharp edges and, by
benefit of the blur, I
weigh in my hands the
hope you take pride
in those days, the spark
of magic, your hands to
the plate.

When a wave departs, the
shells lay bare, jagged mosaic;
among them, the living rise
to tunnel from view, safe
from the seagulls and the
hands of children, reckless
and wild, ’til the hour
grows late or game goes
idle, our nod to carry our
things on home.

Gay boy, you are beautiful, right
here in the gold-sheen wash, this
very moment, you break into laughter
and what an honor, seeing you, here,
all those years you lived like a
ship in a bottle, held your breath
then squeezed your way through
that narrow neck, heartbeat in
your throat as you stammered
the truth, just to feel what it is
to breathe the honest air, and
what a gift, what a love letter –

By the pool, your fingertips fidget
at your shirtline, eyes scan the
scene for smoke to signal danger,
just another place you don’t belong,
but, in silence, you breathe like
a chorus rehearsed, and then
you pull free, only this way can
your shoulders know sun, let
freedom rinse, we are here and
in our palms we carry beauty
we won’t quite see until
time slows our bodies, right
this minute, prescient, urgent,
lovely, ours, you are
beautiful, gay boy, you.

Please don’t forget to be
a little in love with everything
surrounding you this evening, here
for now and only that, weep
for the orange tabby who nests
and revels toward your heartbeat,
ribcaged, but never reveals
the secrets of its singing, paws
pressed, tender, into flesh, sheathing
the sharp, instinctual wild
for this lamplight nap.

You are thirty-six, cradling
three dozen reasons not to
trust the luster of just
any literary notion, but
go on, make poetry of
the mundane miracle of
life and all its unlikelihoods,
can you believe we get to
exist together, you lift your
glass at an Applebee’s, laughter
as everybody’s chaser.

One day, unknowing, you will
go on your final run, that
familiar rise and rhythm and
thunderous bloodstream, so
loop, twist those shoestrings
like a ritual, a prayer, a dance –
the Earth steadily spun
‘neath the needle of your
devoted watch, let the
infatuation hold you, sold,
quiet embarrassment of riches,
everywhere, the cinema pales
in its desperation to capture,
run your hands over everything,
everything right this second.

Adventures in becoming gentler
and gentler, shed those skins
through the pileup of days,
chapters stacked and we revel
in the tender flesh we were
many times cautioned to armor,
press the photo of a man whose
teeth left scar tissue to my
lips then set him free, billowing
in the wake of that wanting,
goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, I
traded my dagger for dancing,
morning coffee in lieu of the
vodka soda bloodstained by
cranberry.

Relentless are the barricades
along the parade route, but
breathe with me, I know
the way, when we arrive,
we all kiss, we hug at the
miracle, our arrival, and
the joy is a sun-soaked blur,
every year, we are more us,
you know the stories I will tell
so you sing along to the
best parts, our becoming
akin to an unmasking, we,
the children who hid beneath
the cloaks of stoic gods.

At the train tracks, I
give voice to a pigeon pacing,
well, hello there, he the
wizened admiral, esteemed and
long-stationed, you giggle
along and fall in love with
me today, so my lips
stamp your forehead, we
would have played together
as children, inventing
the adventure, and always,
yes, always becoming.

Looking back, they were easier days,
sunshine Muncie, lemon wedge awash
in purple beer, and we lifelong students,
no need to report to class, sprinting
across campus under nightfall, snicker
as we whisper, you are my slice
of infinity, report to work at sunrise,
cut class for drive-thru coffee
the minute you text –

Our inner children, those were
their final hours, so we lit up
those rafters, lullaby audacious,
oh, we grieved in our dreaming,
somatic scrape of a heart’s first
breaking, compared scars under
barstool lighting, children still
finding play at hour eleven –
before divorce or credit debt or
cocaine Joey or the
phone call that catches in
your sternum and stays, stays, stays,
only thing worse would be
forgetting.

My mind wanders to your mother,
then wanders to my mother and I
chastise myself selfish, I wonder
about the last bite of food that
made her eyes widen, I
wish to see it, hear the belly
laugh catching her unawares,
the final movie to push her to
tears, glimpses of a woman
that was, and is, I know, I know–
you are her slice of infinity,
in her absence, her presence
echoes, press my ear to your
chest to listen, eyes shut,
marvel at the melody
she knew without practicing.

How glamorous, love
in the early hours, amorous, so
lovely to wake up wanted, wanting,
revel in gold-soaked reflection, to be
all possibility, all tender flesh
and wet-lipped gasp, rumpled
blankets and ordering Thai, fuck it,
answer the door naked, grin my
thanks through the crack and
turn back, winking, watching
pupils dilate, all the stories
brand new and the audience bare,
what a time, being all adventure
and no labor – all magic, no mess.

Harrowing is the crash,
egos flail in the fall, fingernails
scrape for their pound of flesh,
every mirror in the house warping
at once, now I am all my flaws
out loud: so stubborn, so needy, so
convinced I am right, and
don’t forget the way I ruined
the very best nights, everyone says,
everyone whispers how ugly,
how broken I turned out, but,
oh, I’ve got stories, too, vivid
the prose that bears your thorns,
take a look, laugh in horror,
echoed against funhouse walls.

Sing along, you know this
chorus: we say we said things
we didn’t mean (we meant them),
in the loving, bruising, shattering,
shedding, rediscovery on that
morning, long-awaited, where you
first broke into laughter, the epiphany
you’ve missed that sound, the
rinse of letting go, but love
changes the color, lovers leave,
leaving stains in their wake, and
how lovely, how harrowing,
to bask in that threadbare mosaic.

When you call me faggot, you
expect my shrinking, the
breath catch startle and flinch,
my eyes, the white widening,
dagger, razor-sharp, thrown
with surgical precision, you
imagine, watching me flail,
wounded animal, bleeding
deer, stumbling around,
futile, forested floor, o,
the brutality of man.

But no,
the moment you say it, faggot,
our pupils dilate, mine, yours, I see
you, and, worse, you see me see
you, stammering your hate,
shouting to keep your smallness
at bay, and, despite our knowing
your misfire was a shot to kill,
pity blooms in my chest
at the fearful beast, cornered
dog, watching me see you.

You, who will never know
the lightness of loving, the
dancefloor-belted chorus,
grotesque the heart that finds
rage in rainbows, what
terrible company you must be
to yourself, lazy daggers and
hand-me-down hatred,
you, fearful, small, lazy, and
smug, lonely are your
limits, and desperate,
your daggers.