untitled [’100 days’]

It’s been one hundred days
and if feels like it all happened
just this morning.
I’m starting to realize she’s gone –
finally missing her and ultimately
knowing I can never see her again.

I hate that morning –
when Mimi died.
Loneliness overtook me and
pain was invited in.
All I needed was a hug
from Bettina, JD, Travis, Becky,
Mom — but they weren’t there.
I’m cold inside and sad.
I miss her.


On A Friend

I’ve just read a poem
by Paul Lorenz and I
realize how far I still
have left to go.


At First Sight

Blond hair whisps by,
smelling sweetly of overpriced
shampoo. In an instant, he is gone;
the young man whose name
I didn’t get. The beautiful boy
whom I saw for just a second
and fell deeply in love with.
He disappeared, swallowed up
by the rhythmic crowd, too far
away to reach. My heart is broken.


Austin, Texas

Our bodies gyrate to the thud
after thud after thud of the brand-new-
by some cookie-cutter drugged up DJ.

Little boys bounce to the rhythm
all around us as we bump together —
he is a tiger (grrr). I want him closer.
A shirt comes off and we rub
one another — I am his.

In another song and a half, he teases —
swooping in and licking my lips gently.
Suddenly, our lips lock in the confusion.
The exchange is long — he tastes
delicious his tongue dances masterfully
in my all too eager mouth. I am alive!

We know. The little boy came here
only to leave a man. I came here to
seduce him. We leave content,
failing in our missions, but with a new
discovery to haunt and excite us.

That night has made me. It is the
only night I’’ve ever known who I am —
who I want — what life means.


on viewing my Mimi’s body

She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matched
beautifully with the soft pink lining,
the red heart draped around her neck.
As if she’d just come in
from church for a nap –
a lazy Sunday afternoon,
she lay resting — calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down my grandpa’s
too often stoic face.
His wife — the woman he
devoted his entire life to –
his best friend.
“She really is a beautiful lady.”


Another On Sex With J.

It must end
You sweet boy
so young and Polish
I enjoy our games
our endless foreplay
You flatter me with your
nibbles and kisses
and your touch
I enjoy each finger
that runs through my hair
that sensual look
of near pain
that pillowy moan
I anticipate your visits
your creeping up stairs
to conduct this romance
this hidden affair
I miss you even as
I close the door
and I am overjoyed as
you reenter
But oh my sweet
my beauty my child
let’s stop here
where our togetherness
will be remembered
so fondly that future
encounters with similar
strangers are measured
against the intensity that
we share here


Someone Else’s Lover

He tiptoes up the concrete steps
in stolen tennis shoes.
He sneaks into the orange glow
of my cold apartment.
I can sense it — he is here for sex.
We play video games and tickling
games and pretend to make
small talk while we wrestle,
rubbing deliberately the tender
places of the body that make things
pop and harden. I pull back —
or he does — and I keep thinking
how much he belongs to
somebody else and how much
I don’t care. I gently bite at the
veins of his neck as he tries to
continue the video game.
And soon he leaves.



Dear naked one —
smooth and beautiful:
teach me to fuck and love
and bite my ear to show me
that I am doing well.
Your lips are soft and strong
and I need them.
You can do anything to me —
my body is yours.
Caress my tender, virgin parts
and suck rapturously on my
toungue as I slide it into your mouth.