I love you
more than I can stand,
less than I need.
Where is the bed,
the sweet sheets
to hide our shame
and our ineptitude?
Are the stars enough,
the milky blanket
which shields us nightly?
I am numb, paralyzed
until you touch me.
Kiss me,
Unleash the flood.
let me pour
over you,
through you
into you.
Without Him
feelin’ good.
shouldn’t, but could.
might,
but won’t,
’cause it’s not hard enough
without
him.
Jacking Off
trivial satisfaction,
with baseless meaning;
forgoing the stall,
the inconvenience
of looking, posing, sifting
through it all-
mirage of vanity
perhaps a wink of affection
caress, (deception?)-
yet, otherwise
knowing it’s all you’ll get-
ping of purple rush-
gone-
(unless your imagination
gets more real)
These poems are not necessarily related, but they could be…what do you do when he’s not there?
I’ve been thinking a lot about all this God stuff. I was inspired by LargeTony‘s thoughtful post, “Just as I am”. It’s obviously one of the more hot topics in the world these days. Who’s God is THE God, who has the hotline to God, who’s going to heaven, who’s going to hell, what God wants. It’s like we don’t want to think, just do whatever God says. But no one has any proof of the validity of any of God’s rules. It’s mind boggling when you think about it. Here we have this incredibly violent history, mostly inspired by this God who supposedly “tells” someone or other to go kill as many of some other group of people as possible. Don’t think, just DO it. Or in more peaceful times, one may be encouraged to marginalize and judge whomever doesn’t agree with your God. Yet, no one really knows what this big Guy wants. Who really needs medication here?
I don’t like being told I don’t deserve to love and marry whom I want. Seriously, God knows, it might even help settle gay culture down a bit if marriage were encouraged. I know this has been discussed ad nauseum, but there’s a lot to discuss.
On the sex side of gay culture, I actually agree with some more conservative folks that sex can corrupt, but sex doesn’t discriminate as to whom it corrupts. I happen to think impersonal sex can be incredibly uplifting, too, as long as you don’t think it’s gonna solve all your problems, in other words, don’t expect a call from whoever was “prince charming” last night. I guess impersonal sex is great as long as you don’t read anything into it. It’s its own reward, nothing else. Sex is the most amazing thing in the world… until it’s over.
But the underlying issue of sex is dicey. If sex is only about physical pleasure, it leaves much to be “desired”. We are complex creatures. We create subtle meanings for almost everything we do. That’s how we survive. We create myths and stories and meaning everywhere. Life doesn’t have meaning, it’s given meaning. So if sex means something to you, and you’ve thought about it, and know the risks, go for it. If you’re just doing what everyone else is suggesting, you’re nuts. People make choices. Gay culture may be promiscuous, but gay people are not. There is a difference.
So, back to God. Well, soon. According to David Brooks in his op/ed “Public Hedonism and Private Restraint”, kids behavior is much less promiscuous than a decade ago, despite their embracing a hedonistic pop culture. I thought that was interesting. So people are capable of have fun and not fucking up. It may be tricky to do, but it’s possible. Give freedom a chance. Mr. Brooks credits the growing influence of religion in public life, and I can’t disagree. Learning right and wrong in paramount to a healthy society. I think a loving, moral, spiritual, even religious upbringing can only make the world a better place.
But scapegoating a minority under the guise of “higher morality” is bogus. It smacks of the devil, in my opinion. I may have messed up my life from lack of direction, a few too many forays into “experimental” activity and believing that sex holds the secret to everything, but my behavior, though misguided, is not evil. I can’t imagine a God who would smite me for occasionally choosing poorly in my own life. And I certainly can’t imagine a God who thinks my love for another human, a man, would award me a one way ticket to hell. Nope. Don’t think so. That kind of connection to God has too much static. The line needs to be updated.
I just had the most amazing meal experience. The whole thing had a gestalt resonance that just left me humming with, well, gestalt resonance, and memories. Once in awhile, even at age “whatever I am” things in the universe just go ping, and viola, I have a poetic moment. OK, you’re saying, get started.
A meal with a friend, or friends, should be one of the best experiences in life. OK, not counting the first, and last, times you made nookie. But this is not as messy, and lasts longer, well, a little longer, than nookie. Anyway, my friend Joe and I have this tradition. Every year we celebrate each others birthday by taking the other out to dinner at the best (in our esteemed opinion) restaurant in Columbus. Yes, I said Columbus. No, not Columbus, GA. This is OHIO. (A friend once told me, “If I ever have a reason to visit Columbus, I’ll come see you.”)
You’re wondering if Columbus has much of anything. Well, we have lots of parking. And there’s no trouble, ever, finding a spot, except maybe in the liberal, gay part of town, which tries to be edgy, like a big city, and so we commune with other liberals who bond in the angst of looking for a parking space. And we have lots of Malls. I use the capital “Mall” instead of “mall” because we know our Malls hold the secret to the creation of the Universe. What the rest of the world doesn’t realize is that Columbus has more Malls per capita than many cities, and we are proud to be the testing site for the “average” American profile. I honestly wouldn’t be too proud of that, but hey, I didn’t come from here. (Whew!) And in Columbus, OH, we have the Santa Maria, a replica of the original ship that Columbus used to “discover America”, bringing gifts of disease and oppressive religion. The ship looks pretty pitiful and forlorn, lost along the pitiful waterfront park that clings to the muddy shores of the Scioto River.
But Columbus has a few gems for restaurants. Lindeys’ is one, reliable quality and service, but never stunning. But our favorite is The Refectory, which is located innocuously, in the heart of the inner suburbs. In the old “sprawl”, if you will. But what a restaurant. The service is “old style”, formal. For example, once I got up in the middle of a meal to use the rest room. When I came back my napkin was folded on my chair, and all the crumbs had been cleaned up. In fact, sometimes the crumbs seem to disappear from my napkin while it’s on my lap! Now that’s a trick I’d like to learn! In and out before they know what happened!
Anyway, we have been there at least four times, but only twice a year. Yet, this time, they remembered we like “black” napkins instead of white because we usually wear dark pants and prefer the black lint to the white. I guess you have to be there, but it’s a nice little touch. We sat down and the black napkins “appeared”.
But here’s the really good part. Our favorite part. The Sommelier! David. He’s like a really confident, sexy, football jock, who has us wrapped around his, well, his middle finger. And he knows his wine, to boot. What a combo! Every time we dine there, we ask for him, and within 5 minutes he shows up, and with a hint of boyish panache, announces what wine he’s into right now, like it’s the next best thing to, well you know. And with a twinkle in his eye, describes the joys of it’s bounty. Tonight is was an Italian, dark and handsome, with bedroom eyes, a sculptured chest and tight, fully filled jeans, and…back to the wine, which is called “Amarone della Valpolicella”. Apparently they roll around with these grapes in a straw filled barn for two years before attempting to tame it in casks. It was also from 1990. MMM, a good year for Italians with bedroom eyes. Charmed, we pretend to discuss it a bit, then order what he recommends. And we are never disappointed. And each time, he’s able to up the stakes, showing his stuff to a most appreciative audience.
Well, the wine tonight was magnificent, I exaggerate not. in all fairness, the food played a spendidly commendable supportive role to the star. Though only 15, this mature stud was high strung out of the bottle, but grabbed your attention with his pungent “Stilton”, cheesy smell, luring you in for more. And he had amazing staying power, with an even more alluring feminine charm. As he lounged around our mouths, he warmed up and relaxed, sprawling across our palates in his under-ware, eventually revealing cherry and ripe figs. My, oh my.
After dinner, we relaxed with fine French brandy, namely from the Pierre Ferrnand family. His name is Selection des Anges, meaning Angels Choice, and he brought his younger brother, “Grand Reserve”. Both were fulfilling experiences, but my friend and I decided we like the older brother better. I mean, it doesn’t get much better than that. Thank goodness for sinful, unrepentant, sybaritic behavior to balance the world a bit. God must be thanking us for at least attempting to savor the miraculous bounty he put before us.
So, in one night we had a sexy Ohio football player with twinkly eyes, a hot restless graceful Italian stud, and two French boys. Needless to say, we’ll be going back.
I like Taoist thought. You know, yin and yang, light and dark, how they always balance and counteract each other. I also love the idea that all distance is the same relative to infinity. This poem explores these ideas a bit.
An inch of an odyssey takes infinite time
Forever toward it
Forever undone, forever undone, ever undone
Assuming an end is presuming a beginning
Look where you’ve been. You look! You see!
Then wonder “Where on earth am I going?”
Preparing for death frees the wind
to sigh, breathing a soft, new breeze
blowing a tender new bud, unique seedling
Our days and our nights
Swallow each other whole-
Lune lusts for shadow chased Helios
There is no up, there is no down,
Nor back to the belly, nor the crown.
Only forward we lean to fall, grind, roll,
Heave atop the vanishing moment
Hop the lilting merrygoround.
Maps crumble into soot
pinched thin by greasy fingers
peddling false, painted mirrors.
Furrowed, worn paths fell us safely
To known, well trodden soil, dense, smooth, glossed
Away from the path to the effervescent fields
The path through the marshes, ripe, rank and raw
Away from the path beyond to gardenia festooned hills
There is no end, no beginning
Day and night flashes-
Tingling fragrant sparks
In our hearts.