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The Down-Low Messiahs
In his hands I was a cup overflowing with thirst—
Finally, in New York City, eager to bless his
face during this heat wave, eager to be a fire hydrant
Holy Grail. Sweet deliverance, this was my death,
salivation from his sins, from his woman
(and the ways she too must love)
as I wish I had been from mine—
A bath of silky steam fogs up the mirror, see no evil.
Strong water pressure, hard rain, loud fall, hear no evil.
A small hotel room soap bar cleans off residue
left by his adhesive embrace of my lips
and washes my mouth out for speaking evil,
calling god’s name out in vain again and again—
And here I am, punishing myself for shining
the other light, here I am learning how to tell a lie.
But it’s too late—we’ve bitten too many fruits
and cannot relearn the old world.
Skins stretching and sweat quenching
fire-starting words—
The half-made mold of her on his arms
cracking slightly when we embrace.
The virgin on my medallion hits my chest
each time I kneel in front of him to
pray. My ring finger slides forbidden
down his thighs in communion with
flesh, its burn and concurrent healing.
Oh Lord, its reddening appetite—
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Power Bottom
What can come from
perfumes of rotten fruit
every time you pull me
closer,push me harder,
scream my name. Tighter,
my reach pulls the rope.
Please, don’t stop. Bodies
ring in harmony with
the rope’s singing chord. I avoid
seeing ghosts by rolling my eyes
to the back of my head.
But even there I find them,
strange fruit, hanging from old oaks,
broken, bent, whipped, and bled.
So I reach to break the rope
Please stop. Don’t—
When it’s all too much to bear.
But instead my nails dig
into your back as I swivel and ride
pain, twisting into each lash.
There are too few of us to touch tonight
and though I see trees in your eyes
ordering me to call you Master, rope pulled
bruising my skin black,
you say this is love. Tighter. Tighter!
Light a match, catch afire.
Smoke rises.
A trail of tiny ashes; the hanging
scent of blood burnt leaves.
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Vinyl
A scratched record from the thrift store serenades as
loneliness aways from our holy bones and hides
beneath the television set; its face has turned black.
Perhaps the TV set is off, and this turns us on. Perhaps
after the credits come the world’s oldest form of
entertainment: a feathered set of cuffs, a pair of
heels, and me piercing your nipple with a golden spear.
A spotlight lights us from the flashlight on your cell phone.
Yes, perhaps we are stars on camera.
Perhaps its pornography in the 70s.
Perhaps a love scene. Perhaps
cigarette smoke on the silver screen was sexy then, is sexy now.
Is nostalgia the tartest apple in our mouths?
Whisper your favorite lines from the song into the
camera moving side to side around the room:
I don’t know why . . . nobody told you . . . how to unfold . . . your love.
Romeo, burn me like the city in your name.
We are an empire in its final days. We are Icarus flying
too close to the sun. Phoenixes rise from
leather whips and unlinked chains.
Love is an addiction to poppers, PrEP, and shame
and temptation is tobacco ash
burning down the arch of your back when
a song we used to know by The Beatles
brings out the sweet blues in the pain.
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I Always Promised I’d Never Do Drag
You liked me as straight as a man
in love with another could ever be,
and I did too. But you also loved
women, how their backs widen
where hips appear, how their...
