“Parking”

“You should call security.
These homeless people.”

     But there was something else,
     some bit of sadness —

“...always think it’s tragic
when I’m the one paying rent...”

     — behind still-hopeful eyes,
     as a silly heart-shaped balloon 
     floated forward, started to sag.

“in our building? Was he good looking?”

What?

His eyes shut mine
against the breach.
So much to give
as you focus parts,
abs and arms alone,
always.
But those weighted lips,
like waves,
carried dreams

until they reached my shore..

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Faustus Possessed

He didn’t give me his name.
Just a question:
“Are you sure?”

And as I quivered,
arched a vibrating spine,
thought “no contract 
would be legal now,
you have to be sane,
prostate unfluttered,
bliss-less” — 

You don’t even know
who he is!
(Every safe voice.)
I do.
He is Unseen.
Unbodied mechanic.
Quantum god or prisoner,
jinni or egrḗgoroi
angel-demon
foreign-world
alien — 

because, really — 

Oh, my god!
“Yes!”

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Home

Missing pencils and
half-used cakes of board wax

margaritas mid-afternoon
on an old blue-painted porch

the dog is sick
but the vet says he’ll be okay

“Do you ever miss Los Angeles?”
Yeah, some friends, memories

trouble is held back
by the rocks protecting the bay.

for Dave

Triptych

“Isn’t it just
so awesome, Chandler?
Topanga said hi to me!”

We’re both named after
streets?

“Why do I talk to you anyway?
Whitsett will love this story!”

The phone
stays belligerently still
as I remember
saying nothing.

The well she stands behind
is called Love.

Her job
is to scream
each time a fool gets close,
a brutal, wicked scream
that scatters birds.

The wise,
she makes no noise.
They pass on their way,

carrying water.

“Lorca”

Hey, bro!
I did her!
With sunglasses on!

— Memorial Acclamation

Go do it, then,
whatever it is that you do —
sex someone, buy that ring — 
film it, even, make
a record of your elementary courage
and then social your accomplishment
to your kind.
After all, you have the keys — 
(Secret gesture.
Secret gesture.
Secret gesture!)
— and I should want to be
just
like
you.

But, 
no.
If you’re going to do it, hijo,
choose a field where 
you will get caught
and shot
and then I’ll know you’re real.
Let your body stand erect 
as rifles are raised by priests and soldiers;
stand before their righteous hate, alone,
knowing you die for your desire.
Then I’ll follow.

In your childlike voice: 
“It was just a little fun!”
“Why do you have to be so serious?”

Mi pequeñito, you have a thousand ways 
to explain your survival — 
as his blood sings from Spain,
intones a truth known only to me:

Divinity is a dead body,
sinking and stinking,
unliked and unfriended,
shot by justice,
abhorred by Church,
buried nowhere but my heart.

Cristo amó.
Cristo murió.
Cristo murió.

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