Poems, thoughts, and stories.
You know that game where you walk around chairs to music? “Musical chairs?” and one is removed, leaving someone standing? “Yeah?” I’m the one left standing, looking at this dumb game, this violence-inspired mirror of the human need to hurt and wondering “Why you ever started to play?” Yeah. “You think too much.”
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Come make love with me, my friend. Show me your self, whether you’re fast or slow loud or soft — curtains opened or curtains closed — let me know, if only for a minute or more, you’re just like all the others with a few tricks up your sleeve.
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I’ve tried to not want my City, to make life here, far from the streets and hills and men that brought me life in such breadth that I gulped lust at every turn, bodies and books and sweet blessed fog, busses, parks, crazies four floors beneath screaming “HELP! HELP!” though there’s only a streetlamp, three-hundred-dollar theater seats steps from human defecation (it’s not pretty) — tether-bridges to windy and windy headlands and mystical beaches and sex — where to walk is to be enveloped, in love. I tried to love her instead of him, once upon a time, way back when lies meant caring, and my brain and niceness said I shouldn’t hurt anyone so I drowned Aaron in hope and went on screwing and became good at it and talked about; but each night, laying on top of her sweet and forgiving body, sculpted ballers did sweaty lay-ups in my room, in my head in me and if it wasn’t for those players, she never would’ve cum, so it seemed like it was okay. But it wasn’t. I tried Return of the Native. I tried The Glass Menagerie. Everything by Faulkner. All I wanted was Sassoon, maybe a little Woolf, but I’d lock myself in my room to read words words words, and I’d yawn yawn yawn — while A Room of One’s Own whispered slyly to Suicide in the Trenches: “He’s missed the point. “He’s really missed the point.” Sushi Streisand Dances with Wolves mango con limón my dear friend who wants to be dear so he must be but… no-fap novenas TED Talks on writing guys who aren’t built who really aren’t built who seriously aren’t built great personalities no-fap try try try John Cage no-fap “Thy will be done” Los Angeles Christianity — when all along, sweet lullaby, sleeps the not-tried, the true, until I put on a jacket against cold San Francisco freedom and smile destiny.
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They look like sweet town-folk, salf-of-the-earth, flannel and jeans. People that watch the sun come up. Handsome. Christian. My God their pies are good. Killers who pray your mamby-pamby principles die with you, slaughtered in the street, your thoughtful guts lapped up by well-trained Republican dogs named Dog. (Damn. I forgot the warning. “Warning.”) But! But! “How did this happen?” as the flagpole stakes your throat, as unprecedented wheezes through gurgled blood and your solidarity-warm pink hat floats down Constitution Avenue, used and dark and alone. You didn’t see them multiply. You wouldn’t see them grow — in Kansas and Missoura, Texas and ‘Bama, Ken-Tuck-y, right beneath your woke-ness and your museum arrogance and your holier-than-thou Lululemon mindfulness. Yeah, see? You’re kinda responsible. They knew they were safe. They knew you wouldn’t think it, then wouldn’t believe it — “Love is Love,” right? — “We’re all in this together,” right? — as Proud Sons and their Daughters trained for war right under your upturned noses, groomed generals in broad daylight, bought Armani camo, nice blue suits (they already had the bullets and the guns left over from squirrel practice) — red necks covered by executive collars, red ties to hide the splatter. They left their hayseeds at home this time. You were ready for zombies, sunken-eyed okies whose farms were ripped away by BigBanks, grandpas with four teeth chattering all the way to the West Coast (or something like that). Oh, they had your number! Talk about stealth! Their fabric was fine, the Stanford and Yale and Harvard degrees genuine — plus “Wow! He lifts weights, he’s so sexy!” (See my companion lecture on MetroSexual Roles in the Conservative Cause.) “Consensus?” you pleaded. “Let’s talk,” you bleated because — let’s face it — you’re afraid to fight with anything other than words; and refusing to believe evil exists and is usually HOT and BEAUTIFUL, you left the Gate to the Sanctuary unguarded, let WhiteNation and WomansPlace shit defile ravage the Holy of Holies, our Temple, us. Maybe if they had worn identifying armbands? I know what you’re thinking because that’s what you do — I hear your “protest”: “Wouldn’t we be just like them if we used our fists instead of words?” “If we don’t move beyond labels?” “Help them heal?” That’s why they’ll win, StupidBuford and LazyEyeLorraine, because they listened to a real Grandma who said: “Don’t leave your head so open your brains fall out.” You thought she was old — she only had one dress — you never saw her on Facebook — Insta? — and then, and then: after Tucker and Rush and Hannity Ltd. after Laura and Huckabee and Kayleigh visited; giving guns to teenage saps doning MAGA hunting caps (so they’d know who not to cap); after speeching D+ mobs, after fisting fascist slobs — (did you get the little Eliot homage?) — cops bleeding out on marble blinded betrayed — the hunt was on! Smoke-out the out-raged enemy like rabbits or Funny Cousin Earl, who voted for Carter and was then dead on his river-raft, thinking he was family; target those limp-wristed Dem-o-crats whose Cities call to Our Young as Jezebel tempted Jesus (it’s in the Bible); forget, TexasTed, that HE CALLED YOUR WIFE UGLY — AND YOU LET HIM; we’ve got to corner all codlers, socialists and fags, show them MTG would win a pig-fight, make that Puerto Rican loudmouth BITCH run the Gov’ment Maze to her death, execute California, hang the un-Hung Next-in-Line — am I being dramatic? Because what they want, what LittleHornedMan masked with this “false-flag not-coup” — right? — is to come: your ideas, shred like your well-intentioned intestines, disemboweled from well-toned tummies, blood sausage for rabid-stupid hungry children — your ideas, your precious and diverse ideas that helped BobJoe survive his nail-to-the-head accident and paid for his black-hating diabetic momma’s nursing home, high-falutin' ideas like Medicare and Social Security and vaccines (CONSPIRACY! CONSPIRACY! ) — equality — dead with you. * Liberals, people who can think and probably don’t want to die (martyrdom being highly overrated), listen to Grandma, please: “If it walks like a duck and quacks, it’s dinner.” There are no town-folk. There are no Christians. There are no rights. There are armies. This is America. And their soldiers will sip sherry right before carving out your heart. (Yes, this will be on the test.)
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“Had she ever tried to convert any one herself?
Did she not wish everybody merely to be themselves?”
— Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
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They no longer colonize with ships. No armies arrive on my shore, war-boots in sea-water until they sink into wet sand and subdue. Too costly. And then you have to leave a force to force compliance... It’s ugly. Instead, they whisper, those enlightened who yet carry the burden of rectitude. A word, a phrase spoken through the air, taken in — and I’m lost. They no longer act; they just wait until I bow my head beat my breast seek forgiveness from gods curiously unprepared to absolve.
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Poem.
Honestyinthemoment. The sketch that contains the impulse. The impulse that says YOUAREBEAUTIFUL when he’s standing next to you intheelevator, looking at his phone until he’s not looking at his phone, and all Life waits on someonetolivenotwatch him return your urge with a smileorsmirk that says thankyoufuckoff.
Not choreographed. Rehearsed. Planned. Theater.
Real. Dangerous. You.
Poem.
The spirityouwant being the spirityouare — to speak without speeching, to love without loving. No -ings. Only act, no neuteredgerunds, until you homeyourself, and the lifeyouare finds itself standing next to another life, sexy and real because you said “You’re beautiful” without try-ing, without plan-ing.
YouPoem.
No end in sight, just Cosmos and onegiantchance.
What would Life be if honestyinthemoment was you?
Poem.
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Sacred Space — Arrival The wrinkled woman resting in the doorway hustles aside, her bones twitching hard: “I'm sorry, Sir,” as I pull my bag into the Inn on Folsom Street1. ⥨ Exposed brick walls try hard in my suddenly empty room. Industrial. Rough-Masculine. I don’t...feel anything. I thought I’d feel something. No ghosts. Nothing. ⥨ I know the old fairies flew south years ago. No place for the Auden-faced. And the demons? Those super-charged leather dangers stalking prey in red steam? Now they cam2 from rented rooms in Sacramento and San Diego, their hunting names changed from Steve to Chase, TwinkChase3, ever-so-sweet-and- special Chase. I don't know what to pray for or to, not in this abandoned church. ⥨ Walking While Thinking — SoMa4 What if the usurpers, the influencers paying $1.9 million for a pissed piece of SoMa, are just waiting for us to die? What if these squatters, these supplanters, are the Old City’s fevered urge, lusting after land and Better Homes-ness, trading-in sweaty stories for a kid in an UPPAbaby5, the ultimate accessories? Makes sense as senses now scent safety, porning lean clean high-pitched action-figures in Lower Castro6. Everyone’s lost their balls. ⥨ Pause — Phone Call Home “Mike called,” says the man on the phone. My boyfriend. Back in LA. “What’d he want?” “Know where you were.” “What’d you say?” “Up in San Francisco. Probably getting disillusioned.” That’s why we’re at 20 years. More or less. ⥨ Exhibit — Dolores Park7 Cafe. Conversation, overheard while eating expensive steel-cut oatmeal. “And so he's interested in you finding a tenant for your property.” “Yeah, and we have so much in common!” Outside, those who can only afford the sidewalk are no-shows to the convention of web-developers and Mommy-n-Me in Lululemon8. I’m a haunted old spirit: “The best never survive.” ⥨ Walking Richmond9, after searching GG Park10 for Signs of Life. They all have money, or They have all the money. Houses high atop garage doors painted in expected candy-shop pastels. Millions couldn't buy in. But it's also an attitude; they fit. This kaleidoscopic nursery is their world. I like the sidewalk now; it’s original, the hard-marked past, bones of my city, cast when these houses were just houses, you could hear shouting because people shouted back before dot.coms and Grindr11, when bandanas12 spoke not conclusively, you had to look a guy in the eyes and the park was full of risk and joy. My world: on that older hill, the one covered in open-faced beauty and daring, weathered desire. Somewhere. Or sometime? ⥨ Processing — SFO13 A cocoon of security. We pay to pretend. You can’t pretend in bus stations. But here, I wonder with beating breathing heart: What would I do if I was asked for spare change at the United ticket counter? If I wanted a cigarette? If someone stood up and said preferred pronouns are simply an expansion of binary imprisonment? If an out-loud not-texted internet-free political need happened? Their aggrieved-teenager answer: “Is it so wrong to live unencumbered? Does everything real have to be uncomfortable?” It’s easy to get turned around by children. Now I miss their sandcastles, the peaceful playset neighborhood. Nobody who doesn’t belong wanders by. It’s nice. Just like an airport. It’s all that’s left. ⥨ Reflection — Flying, looking back San Francisco: where dreams and memory lay buried. Only ruins survive; fate has fashioned them weapons hope can’t overcome: marriage bourgeois magazines health money a future an attitude clean pecs success. But still... I look back as the plane banks for SoCal, for LA and my old boyfriend who will greet me outside third-world LAX14 and drive the stained and broken 40515 home, where books and vacuuming wait; and I see my once-home fading into a sunsetted Ocean that touches every time I’ve cared about, waiting, just waiting, and I find myself praying: Maybe you will be broken again, so like me when you led my strange and halting body through cracked unwanted lovely streets to flowers and eucalyptus, pro-offered grass in sheltered shadow and men became yours, cool-touching breeze, wounded naked-love in pine-fragranced gasping way-too-crowded dirty Heaven… I miss you. Shake off this juvenile dream. Please, God, let us be in love again.
Notes:
1 past and (somewhat) current location
of San Francisco’s gay leather community
2 interactive filming of oneself engaged in
sexual/intimate acts, either alone or with
others, for a live internet audience, in
exchange for money and/or tokens
3 unblemished young adult male, typically
between the ages of 18-20, who utilizes his
perceived innocence or actual lack of
sexual experience in the pursuit of (generally)
older adult males/“daddies”
4 South of Market; historically, the economically
disadvantaged/“seedy” section of San Francisco
5 high-end baby stroller; average cost: $850
6 once known as GayMecca, the center of San
Francisco’s Gay Liberation Movement of the
mid-1970s
7 somewhat successful example of urban
revitalization/renewal; once known as DrugPatch
Park
8 high-end workout wear favored by teen girls
and their mothers
9 neighborhood/district in the northwest corner
of San Francisco, just north of Golden Gate Park
10 Golden Gate Park; known for its Victorian-styled
Conservatory of Flowers and lengthy wooded
trails; iconic location for public sexual activity
11 dating application designed to identify and
communicate with potential gay male sex
partners; lists inclinations and availability, as
well as possible locations for sexual activity
(host, travel, public, etc.)
12 heavy handkerchief positioned in the back
pocket of gay males to communicate sexual
inclination; historically, the color and side of
placement indicated sexual appetite (eg:
hunter-green in right-hand pocket = looking
for a “daddy”). No conclusive guide existed/
exists for the placement/meaning of the bandana.
13 San Francisco International Airport
14 Los Angeles International Airport
15 also known as the San Diego Freeway; largest
connector between the West Side of Los Angeles-
proper and the populous San Fernando Valley
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When I am dead, growing in the ground — assuming the world goes on, assuming they don’t end the world after I’m 80 (or, given my family history, 67) — I want to be: a multiple-choice test option. Think about it! That’s the way to make it. That’s the way to know you matter. Who wouldn’t want to be Archduke Ferdinand? Sure, he’s dead, and sure, his death was…painful. But he is the answer to an important question: “Whose assassination caused the first World War?” He is remembered! The test question, then — that’s important, isn’t it? They say if you don’t ask the right question, you won’t get the right answer. So: “Who is the greatest poet of their age?” That was easy! It just came to me. It’s the way I want to be remembered: not a, but the poet — a poet who moved women to riot and men to tears; who showed desire is way better than thought; the one who gets quoted at weddings and funerals, chiseled on tombstones, printed on birth announcements. The one who freed Literature from the puzzle-makers and the puzzlers. Nobody’s done that yet. Nobody! I’ll be unique! Okay. Calm down. This is the way to go. Take it slow. (I feel so much better now, knowing what I want.) Next...the other test options are important, aren’t they — almost more important than the question. Who do I want surrounding me? Who will share my stage? Another conundrum! So let’s try: A) Sappho B) William Shakespeare C) Walt Whitman D) Greg Beckman That was easy, too. I am good at this! They’ll all select (D), of course — but only after much deliberation. I want them to think, search their souls, argue. You can’t just give silly options, answers easily dismissed like Dylan Thomas or Mitsuhashi Takajo, whose haiku softly hold my whispering heart home, but who Americans confuse with a car; or Thom Gunn, who taught me how to speak honesty but is a cricket-chirp in Catholic schools (that homosexual thing); or Lorraine Hansberry — God! Are they all gay? — the much-taught playwright, right, who didn’t write a stitch of searing raw-nerve I-can’t-get-rid-of-this-thing poetry, right? No. Those options are quickly crossed out. I won’t be a default. I want students to sit at hard-carved desks confounded among the known greats, those who have risen, acceptable contenders — and choose me. Why? Because everybody knows history only enshrines the greats, and that to be remembered — to be studied! — by legions of caring, sensitive schoolchildren and objective, contemplative teachers of story will delight my crusting corpse.
There are more poems. After this romp, I’d try something here.
Or maybe a story….here.
He lives in my garden; only I have the key. There is no gate, no lock to un-lock like those posh private parks, just a tree and some grass, balloons from a story and maybe an old bottle of wine we bag before law comes spinning around, on the hunt for happiness. Over there is our first kiss on the stone pier they said Cortés built, stretching out into a tequila moon; and where that old lady sits, remembering or forgetting: a flight to somewhere, one screen lit in the dark, yours, watching the same movie, three times. He is my garden; only I have the key. No sock-puppet politician or fisting Missouri FratBoy can trespass our grass, mock our tree, pull down those balloons. He is my garden, eternally lost except to me, safe like drunk wine and watched movies, invisible to those who don’t speak love, far from parched howls and Christians, close as breath.
*Dedicated to Josh Hawley, who thought his own hand was up in the air as he declared war.
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“Shower”
I am a poet which means I stand in the shower and think the water is too hot and shift the faucet-thing to the right only to be blasted by cold reality into a sniveling shriveling carapace shouting silent expletives that crash cheap tile with all the force of metaphor.
“Preserved”
No
sugar in the tea.
It's today's enemy
(like cigarettes and
nostalgia and eggs).
So
what? Now I get to
outlive joy?
More poems here. (Some are not fun, but maybe you’re in the mood?)
And yes, there are stories. But they are not fun. They are real.
Greg Beckman 