Blazer’s Ask

Blaise was sure something would go wrong because something always went wrong even though he planned everything down to the minute he would be standing outside Shawn Stellar’s house knowing full well his best friend would be staying after school for a detention Blaise made sure Shawn got and would have to serve Tuesday, April 11.  That was the most important detail because Blaise could only be sure Shawn’s father would be home after school on Tuesdays and he had something very important to ask him.  But now that he stood outside the door on a cold and almost rainy and gray Tuesday in April Blaise couldn’t knock on the door. Maybe Mr. Stellar wouldn’t be working on his old car or had to go to the store for something that just couldn’t wait or maybe Shawn’s mother was going to be there when he really needed to talk with Mr. Stellar man-to-man and not with the whole family around.  All this was too important to be entrusted to Blaise’s very full mind that was getting more and more full by the minute when the door opened and Mr. Stellar asked if he was going to knock or just wanted to stand outside all afternoon long…

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*

Shimmering

I tried to run just like them,
the gods of track whose ankles worked
as they shimmered before crowds,
High School Heroes of ambitious dimension.

I plodded desperate for legs, 
then arms, then breath 
up the curious street of my youth.

My feet slapped ridiculousness
as wild elbows jabbed wildly
at dreams I didn’t fit — 
lungs wheezed 
vapid sissy-fire before 
an incredulous emptiness —

I bent without a friend,
alone on the side of the road,
and thought:

“Speedos are way-sexier
than this!”

*

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For Now

The sun feels good in this world,
warm,
wide-windowed breeze
and your brown clone sunglasses
with golden wire frames.
I think I’m falling.

With you, my skin is tanned to sand,
porch-picnic-ready,
your mom asking “So is he
treating you good?”
When I say yes,
she gets that twinkle
so I know what she means.
I nod, shy; she smiles, 
proud of her son.

I sit in your world
and we all eat chicken and talk
about school and 
TV and
how you know when you’re in love.
(They had a lot of wine.)
Here, your parents are mine;
they don’t have to say 
I’m welcome.

Now I remember:
Mom hides fear in her smile
while dad tries hard to forget
me,
sewn up tight as he
feasts on fury.
I am a billion sand-pieces
waiting for glass.

“Come on,” you say.
“The road’s too cool
for that.”
So I wrench out of then, 
kiss this
forget that
for now.

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Beginning Middle Man — Poems

Beginning Middle Man. Its poetry is surprisingly straightforward, honest and strong, adult without apology. All gay-eros, all the time, a way of remaining true to what I’ve known since I was 17: if we’re not talking about sex, then we’re not talking about ourselves.

These poems are like most men I know and love, rough around the edges and awkward in the extreme. But still beautiful. 

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