Extra avocado and mine was double meat

When the drag queen almost lost control of her testosterone
you said I was the one to blame, even if I was only purchasing sandwiches
I couldn’t help the register being in front of the door
any more than I could I help laughing when the missing link
between RuPaul and Paul Newman found me in the way

But it was not my fault
there off of Christopher Street and Bleecker
the gay zenith of the Eastern Seaboard
and me an oily Guinea boy from Queens
I hadn’t crossed the PATH train tracks yet
and my hot Soppressata was already in trouble

Baby if it wasn’t an overweight troglodyte in lipstick
and maybe if I had done something to insight the
Snap
Snap
Snap
by my face, other than buying us lunch
in the wrong place at the wrong time
then I would accept that you love gay men unconditionally
even holding me at fault for taking people each as individuals

But this time I needed your back
and I’m sure any one of our friends, straight or not
would have been accosted just the same
because no amount of make up
can mend a broken soul

infiltrated

I tried the “guns blazing” approach
and you were ready
behind thick walls and ramparts
my strategy needed revision

Unarmed and carrying only fresh cut blossoms
I returned to your castle doors
begging on bended knee to be let in
and after months of groveling
the draw bridge slowly lowered

It took many more months to gain your trust
afterall, you remembered me
emblazoned upon the federal wanted posters
an unshaven nomadic bandito rogue

Eventually, Winter turned to Spring
and smiles bloomed where icicles once hung
I waited for the fruits of June ripen before I made my move
and by then I was welcomed and invited

Now I sit and sup from the nectar of life
protected myself behind your grand walls
in our own fertile paradise
wallowing in the splendor of your garden

in the stars

distant campfires perforate the night
yellow flickering points
communal centers for congregation
small groups huddled, wondering
What are the others like by the other fires?

connect the dots of these constellations
communities become nations
stories of love and war
made by these seekers of others
forging through the unknown black
to meet neighboring masses around hearths

offering firewood and hot drink from their fire rings
not all are met with welcome
but that is where the stories come from
passed down from generation to generation
a history etched through specks in the night
like Braille for the seeing for all to read

Old wall

You once drew teddy bears, birds and fish
caricatures made by dragging a stick through the sand
you sang us lullabyes in Lithuanian
and made sure we knew we descend from royal blood

you were the load bearing wall holding up the house
keeping security and order with love in our family
then by time’s erroding misfortunes
we boys gre old, as did you
teenage boys bring their troubles
as to lay-offs and life in general

Now mother works two jobs a day
your sons have both been graduated
the gray whiskers on your face
each stand as witnesses to your strife
I hope that we can make you proud

Despite having been defeated early on
you managed to keep a smile on your face
though the old wall is not as sturdy anymore
its story and presence are a lesson and a comfort
There I will hang my pictures of your drawings in the sand

light years

There was a time delay
between when I lost it and
when I realized it was gone

A star supernova light years away
drifting through time to
form in our consciousness on Earth

So too was it when I found my youth was missing
like a spare cash bill in my back pocket
on a night out with friends mixed in beer
gone and unaccounted for
into the new black hole of numbers

brainswell

it is crazy how man and mind can fight
like in any relationship, a little booze can hurt
coming home late stinking of Bourbon
and then crawling into bed
no wonder the power switch was off
and is telling me to flip the circuit breaker
at almost noon the jolt came through
I should have been up for longer

Now my mind has taken on a fight
pounding the inner skeletal skull’s lace
fearing another night of self indulgence
and the weekend coming up soon
Bourbon will be my friend again
and will distance my self from self
once again having Manhattans on the namesake

Storied Pines

Today I grew old enough to plant my Pines
as father had planted his, so now I do mine
while we were younger we played amongst his
a small grove of boughs, a magical land for kids
we played hide ‘n’ seek and cowboys and Indians,
through  youthful eyes we missed the stumps
strewn all around our shenanigans
how could we have missed the stumps?

Father always did avoid that patch of wood
always hollering to us from the house
today I grew to sadly know why he would
as my uncles came pouring in from neighboring towns
they cut down the Pines where brother and I once played
each tree they crafted with storied hands
they too had planted Pines to make into boxes where later they’d be laid
growing boxes in in patches on their land

As their fathers had and now do I
dig my these holes to fill with roots of Pine
I hope that when they come to collect these trees
I would have made my father proud
having raised strong boys and my share of work and time on my knees
so my boys will plant their Pines too, to carry the tradition ’round

pushing buttons

sensibilities are hard to see through or into
like New Hampshire’s White Mountain valley mists
which brings chaos to peaceful Spruce lined roads
hiding ice patches from drivers, causing crashes
or concealing lovers from neighboring windows
some find both offensive with their screams

not the Wolf or the Owl, nor the Spruce or the Hemlock
they hide what offends them poorly
fog induced screams and human
poppycock are not among their concerns

the Owl cries when the Wolf snatches her fallen prey
Spruce’s veins flush red at Winter’s huffing
huffing, which makes the Hemlock delight with company
of snow hugged branches and it’s quieting peace
Wolf only cries for food, which lumps him with the Spruce and Owl
who will leave car crashes and human lovers to their howls

Ode to last week’s flowers

They would be bare, no doubt
after a week in bloom, exciting the room
and then a long weekend unattended, unappreciated
their petals would have plunged to their deaths
forsaken lovers self-propelled off incalculable cliffs
felt forgotten and afflicted with broken hearts

We returned to find them waiting
on their widows walks high above the table
looking sad and drooping, but still in color
they were waiting to die with pride for us
emitting final fragrances, stems still strong
that is how it will be remembered

This morning final breaths left puffed out chests
pride now following the spirit, no longer inhabiting their bodies
some now lost their petals and some sagged sadly
the Tulips stand erect with crispy crimson crowns
all stamen, stems and petals caught in rigor mortis
only a few Tiger Lillis survive among the dead
keeping the bastion of beauty of last week

Gwapin man

I am not black
I am not white
no color choose I
nor other racially partial hues
I am one human
I am one man
no other race to placate or amuse

If you must press on
and are not yet satisfied
then I will speak in kind
to your made-up words

Made from dim-lum-rum
in a Kaas-bin-kip
my parents gave me gwapin features
That should answer your questions
and should quell your fears
otherwise, you must find new teachers