I really really see you now

I guess I am physically incapable

Of wanting those eyes, I never could stand the eyes.

Yet in This Now,

I can’t bear to have you not look.

Bare, I want to sleep naked next to the stranger.

“We’re the rotten ones, the stranger ones.

It’s the way it’s meant to be.”

Because maybe if you catch brush

Of absolutely urgent, of my wanting, of sweating-for-you skin,

Yes, even through white paper sheets,

(You feel so rough, I only need it more)

You might wake in your rest

Against a stranger,

And really, really see her

Give her That First Time.

Genesis

YOU:

“Wife of Abraham, mother of Isaac...”

I find you in Genesis, and this is something obvious

(If you had been there. If you had only been here.)

I only wished

“I just wish we’d grown up

in the same house” 

and I don’t know how else to explain this.

“Princess” (how can you not see it? 

Why don’t you like your smile?) 

Other translations: “Noblewoman”

Noble, or like a first born son, or like,

Or like this first blooming, looming love, looming inevitably over my gay heart.

I can’t stop writing about something

if that something is a face 

I can’t stop seeing.

And they’re strangers,

And I eavesdrop,

Grateful just to hear

If they might pronounce their N’s

Or their color-soaked hearts,

The way you didn’t. 

Subway Scratch - My Notepad In The Train

I can’t look up when you do. 

(I don’t even try)

“I’m sorry.”


The required response:

“In what dimension,

In what plane of existence,

In what sort of after life,”

Does my body stay buoyant

without you?

I’ll think it first, and say it last.


He knows things.

Like Brooklyn blocks,

Every place we ever made love

And why.

“Open secrets” opening in my areas

Of weakened skin.

The best roads to take home.


Don’t think about all those hours driving,

The hope filled the gas tank,

The crashed car collateral

And almost dying with shoulders touched. 


Maybe the problem lies that

He doesn’t like the lies

Like I do. 

Being a Happy Hooker During The HoliGays

The holiday season is hard for us hookers. The client/provider dynamic is unique in that even though you share things with us you’ve never shared before, maybe experienced more joy and pleasure than you have with anyone else, despite all of that you have with us, at the end of the day when you go home, we’re your secret. Tucked into one compartment of your life--our time together is almost like a time warp. It reminds me of when I’d return to my childhood summer camp, many miles away from home, each summer. While you were gone, it wasn’t always on your mind, but when you returned, it was like you had never left. And that has beauty to it, and that’s the way it works, so no shame in that game at all. But I love my clients, and during the holidays they’ll inevitably be redirecting their time and money to their families. My first Christmas in the industry, this devastated me. Emotionally and financially, I wasn’t prepared.

But here’s the kicker. The guys who make New Year’s Resolutions. Yes, I’ve had long time clients dump me because their resolution was to be a “better person” (weird), and somehow that meant not attending to their own needs and happiness anymore. Having a relationship with a client whom you really cherished end over a newfound “morality” is frustrating. Thank you for allowing me to vent this. I’m very much known for being a Happy Hooker, but I feel a responsibility to share a multitude of moments. After all, even the Happiest of Happy Hookers are real, multidimensional people who happen to have very emotionally fulfilling and complex occupations.


The Moon Strikes The First Wave

Beach 72nd and Beach 96th

You asked me why I didn’t call you.


Yes I was in town

“But I almost drowned,” 

Text back. The first time I hesitate

To send a text back.


“I almost drowned.”

And it’s true when I say it.

Because it’s good to change the subject;

My mother swallows the Whore and The Fag at the table,

And salivates the salacious story of a girl who almost drowned.


“I think the Moon controls more than we think,”

You said once. You sat across me 

Stirring a dumpling with a chopstick through the cold broth. 


I don’t know why people look so much more beautiful in memories of them, but when I see you, 

eyes soft and boyant,

like the dumplings, 

your toasty complexion, the braille across your back, wood chip toenails. 


When I see, skin is like marshmallow fluff

or yellow syrup sliding over snow hills

or taught sunset apple skin. 

But I know you were rougher than that. And I loved it.


“I don’t want to think about that,”

Text back his Mother Moon. 

This angler’s temptation, 

Brought the mouth of my heart up to her hook, 

And the penetrating feels like iron line cast to sea.


I’m landlocked 

and I feel waves. Beneath me, Beach 72nd Street.


My lover’s breath grows still as he tries to follow the navy waters,

And that is when I awaken.