Wednesday, June 22, 2016

The Sage Covered Chair

What do you hear old sage covered chair

What styes of the spirit have healed on you.

The forbidden passion

The anger at Father

The pain of stolen agency

The repentant thief

The sorrowful abuses

The sinner who perhaps you think out not to have his soul cleansed

They have all sat on you.   What have you seen.   What have you heard

Do you feel the weight lessen as they speak to the old man

do you hear his voice perform spiritual extraction

Does the weight on you shift, with each new confession

Does the silence scream to you as they try to blurt out the unspeakable acts they committed

Do you recognize their rump, as it rests on your cushions.

Do you miss them when they come no more.

Do you recognize the ones when they return once more, this time with profuse praises to above

Are there enough joyous times, old chair friend of mine?  Do you see enough souls mend their ways.

Do you see them progress, from the heap of a mess, to a man known and loved by his Pa.

When they come in to marry, does you thread bare seat, know the joy of the Union they'll form?

I guess the answer is no, for down here below, The Old man must hear tales alone

These walls, floor and chair, and the light fixture over there don't lend their strength more than their form.

And only to them can he tell, of his  battle with hell, to keep souls on our Dear Savior's side.

Oh God let him know, that down here below, his work helps lost ones come to you.

Keep your hand on his back, keep straight his bent neck, and whisper what you want him to do.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Forty-nine Smiles

Forty-nine smiles made straight on the dark night in Orlando.

Forty-nine smiles met hate on the gay family's dance floor

Forty-nine smiles frozen broken never speed joy again

Forty-nine smiles slaughtered by the monster they thought they left in that dark closet so long ago.

The voices that raked their eardrums as they sought protection in the hanging coats were suddenly made manifest in an inhuman human  who thought a human soul less valuable than a round of ammunition.

A family, a community, a nation and a world all paused.  Their brows furrowed.  What do we do when the monster of the closet becomes all to real.  Do we hide?  Do we retreat? Do we let his hatred burrow into our hearts and paralyze our smile?

No.  We send the monster back to the infernal depths from whence he came.   And we smile.   We smile to show him he may hurt us for a season but we will crush him.

From now until the end of time when hated of those different seeks to crush the smile we will fight back.  We will love.   And we will unite.

In the closet we were alone, with only the monster to keep our space,  in the world we are surrounded by brightness love and peac

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Cast Out

I wish I could blame my deviances on some demon.  I wish the things I did could be passed off to some unseen force.

I wish, like in days of old, a warrior sage would cast out all unholy beings from the unseen world, that my soul could be free and not tied down.

But then I discovered a secret.  I discovered what I’ve always known.

If the demonic forces were taken away from this clay vessel, then it would go limp, with no vitality of its own.

I am the demon they wish to cast out.  I am the spirit unclean.

I am the force for destruction in the universe.  I have a serpents sheen

Thursday, May 19, 2016

A poem for Elsa

Do you want to build a snow man? Doesn't have to be a snowman It could a pretty lady for you We'll butch up you two and get some close cut haaaaaair We used to be heteronormal The prince and I But then came lgb-teee Do you want to have a boyfriend Doesn't have to be a boyfriend. You might be bi

Tuesday, April 19, 2016



The man at the head of the hall speaks, in laid back unison the 3 lines of people act out the motions he proscribes. Smiles on faces, the group tries to figure out how this dancing puzzle will fit together, bringing them back to their partner in sixty-four beats

A spin with the girl across from you, eyes locked in flirtatious mad robin pose with your partner, as you circle the other couple. Your group of for forming the world for this repetition of the dance. 

There is another man here. Partnered with the other girl. The voice from the head of the hall tells you to "give weight" and alamand with him. You grasp right hands and lean back, both of you rotating relying on the other to lean with a effort matching your own. Too weak and the experience is like eating cold floppy pasta. Too strong and you struggle to keep your body from falling into the girls waiting for you to rejoin them. But this man--this lean young man with a buzz cut and worn boots, attacks this dance step as he has all others, with exuberant joy and precision. For 8 long counts, you spin, connected only by the hand grip. The caller ends the move. You must return to your partner. You draw the spin out for a half count longer, but react appropriately as you each give the other a push off, spinning back into a swing with your partner. 

For me, that is the highlight of the contradance. The brief physical interactions with some guy I've seen weaving in and out of the dance lines all night long. I enjoy the entire process. The live band, infectious beat, the happy faces, and even the proscribed flirtatious looks as I gypsy around my partner. But those all to short moments when I interact with another man, I see how the others live. I see what it's like to have the music move you in tandem with another you seek connection with. I see why dances are found in every society and time around the planet. The music feeds a connection.

It takes two to tango they say. Life, relationships are about give and take. Moving sometimes together, sometimes separate from your partner. I think Contradancing as a gay Mormon, is a pretty good shadow to romantic life.

I am expected to find a partner. While Contradance does allow you to dance whichever role you would like, the majority of couples are male-female. And that fear of asking a man to dance is present. Will he think I'm coming on to him? Will he turn me down? Will I commit some grave sin by doing so? 

So dance with the lady-folk. And its' fun. The dancing is fun regardless of whom it's with. Like in life, I usually let the ladies approach me. Why not? I don't do it out of nerves as much as lack of interest. I have fun, I do the moves with my partner, but my enjoyment isn't because of them. It's the interaction with the entire hall. Maybe I should feel bad. But contradancing isn't about them coupling anyway. It's about mixing with everyone. In a dance you repeat the same moves probably 15-20 times, each time moving with your partner to dance it with another couple. The ways the moves are strung together to accomplish that are masterful.

So I dance with this woman. Who is nice. We have fun. We make small talk, but there is no spark of attraction. No tension in that manner. I am more excited to see which men are coming down the line. Will I get to interact with one of the ones I think is attractive. Invariably I do. And that is the interaction that I find myself thinking back on as my mind drifts back to the memorable evening. That connection with men, so fleeting, so intense. And so foreign in my life. An individual dance will at most have 8 beats of the 64 that involve that direct connection. Kinda like my life. I move around men and women, do what I am instructed to do. It's not bad. But it' salsa not the spice. THe fire comes in that 1/8th of life. When I connect with a man. In a way yearn for. But isn't to be had for a gay Mormon.

As I leave the dance, the man with the buzz cut says, "hey, good dancing!" I reply "you too". And we go our ways. Until the next month, when the magic of contradance pulls us back to the out of the way gymnasium on a hill overlooking Salt Lake Valley. Each month, I wonder if I'll go back. I always do.

Thursday, April 7, 2016


I see you in the dream dimension. I see you in the flat dimension. But when we meet in the 3rd dimension, my body fills with apprehension, the screen reveals I can't mention, the air is tight with one way tension; our friendship stolen by unseen henchmen; who sell your secrets to pad their pension. ~~~~ I see you in the flat dimension I see you in the dream dimension But then we meet in the third dimension. I cannot speak, I can't remember have we met in this one before. Have the things we shared, been solid and real? Or all the fancies of the lonely mind. Are we friends? I sure feel it. I feel like I know you well. But when I see that blank look on your face, I know nothings happened before. We were friends once, but only in ether. Our adventures were dreams, no more. I'd like to have met you, here in the real. I'd like to have been your friend. But now things are odd. I know far too much, and of me, you know nothing at all. I jumped too far ahead, knew all of your life, and even though the pictures you freely shared, the fact of it is, the journey of one should be matched by the other, if the friendship will last in the end.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Hidden Corpse

A broken will.  A broken man.  The minimum to survive.  The minimum to feel good about oneself

 I used to fight against the gay.  I used to believe there was an end to the conflict.   If I worked hard enough, prayed sincerely enough, or placed my life in the hands of a wise therapist.

But it didn't work.  The mind raking continued unabated.   I wasn't perfect.   Maybe if I would have done one of the afore mentioned solutions I would be changed.

I used to think I could change through force of will.  Isn't will the key to all of life's problems.   Isn't will how we become better, get good grades, stay in shape, keep the commandments.  It's all force of will. 

Years of willing it gone turned to hate.   I hated my gay.   I still do.   Perhaps if I showed enough hate toward the manfire I would be accepted of the Lord.  He would see my desire for righteousness and change me.

It never happened and I gave up on it.  I didn't give up on the gospel, but I gave up on changing.  I still keep the rules.  I still do the minimum for what I need to do to be a "good Mormon."  And I do feel the goodness of the church.  But I abandoned my desire to change.  The battle was too pointless.   It was futile.  The harder I fought, the stronger desires came, like a demonic hydra there was no success in cutting off the head.  It just came back stronger.

Then I thought I needed to be wiser, so I told people.  I told therapists.  So many dang therapists.   The therapists who promised if I did the things they said I would be straight.  I would forget my homosexuality.  That eventually I would look back at this time in my life as a small blip on the radar.

Their wisdom failed me.   Their promises were flat.  Their exercises were clownish, humorous if it wasn't a matter of life and death. 

Along side both these paths was the spiritual.   The weekly fasting.   The comprehensive confessions of every thought, act, and fleeting biological response--oh those biological responses.  How they damned me in my head.  How they came at the most random of  times.   So I damned them.  I forbade them.   But they found a way.  They still came.   And with them weeks of hell on earth.   Weeks of shame with each one.

Righteousness eluded me.   No porn addiction.  No self stimulation.   But I was still evil, vile, less than all those around me.  And the gay flavor of my feelings made them immediately of a deeper  sin category.

Then I gave up.   I stopped the fight to change.   I don't have the energy anymore.  Life isn't better. I still have the mind raking digging deep furrows into my self image.  Fag!  Pervert! Unholy!  Those are the valleys it has made.

And I have lost my drive.  My ambition.  It has left me.  I failed in this battle of life, so why do other battles matter.   Why should I lose weight, when my belly is a chastity belly.   Why should I try to advance my career when I don't know if I'll even be around in five years, and will never had a kid to train up.  Why should I write a novel.  Effort does not bring results. It brings sorrow.  It brings frustration.  It brings stronger armies to fight.  So why fight, when I can lie on the battlefield amongst the corpses pretending to be dead, and the enemy ignores me.

I am the walking dead.   I care not for my future, please, just don't hurt me anymore

But there is some warmth.  A spark of life.

 This corpse we found in the pile of dead still responds.

All it takes is an ember.   As long as we can find the faintest glow, we can tend it.  Feed it.

All is not lost.  This body may once again move with passion.  He may once again enter the battle and win another prize.

Nourish the little flame.  Do not blow to strongly on it.   This soul is beaten but not gone. 

We will watch over carefully.  Who knows? Maybe he has a light to spread.