It was a motion always in my mind,
sex, the summer I was going insane.
Pornography is a hot dog eating contest in Pompeii.
Catcalls for the first black champ.
I remember Eddie Vedder saying on the radio “it tasted like a popsicle that had been up somebody’s ass.”
Hesitant, homoerotic poems about horses and the ocean
and that sort of thing I cannot write.
I have to hetero and be bold.
Language remembers. People forget.
I like looking at clouds in a blue sky,
the white puffy kind.
Clouds make me feel like I’m already dead.
Godlets swimming on a microscope slide.
I always wish to be precise as, inside
a glass ball that magnifies it,
a hair from the beard of Mohammed.
Mr. Fix-It must one day face the Sphinx.
Inside every walnut a gargoyle waits.
Pontius Pilate fish did not fear God the shark.
Faith and begorrah, a plague of frogs
on all the Steadfast Edsels of the City.