Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Hoops for Jumping

You taught me how to shoot hoops since I was two

Love the game it’s just what our people  do

Early morning in that cold church wood floor court

Ball bounces the words we spoke

Wasn’t the best, but I made the team

8th grade, locker room full of steam

Why do I look at my friends that way

Quick look down, who knows what they’ll say

I learned all the loves from the family

To drive and dish and be so manly

But the details started emerging

What’s this feeling? What’s this yearning

His name was clark and he had a dark tanned back

Smile so sweet, and not an ounce of fat

When I defended him it was so very nice

Locker room sweat was my favorite spice.

What kind of freak am I with this feeling

What are these creepy glances that I’m stealing

If I would just make out with that chick named Kelly

The the flow’r would grow inside my belly

How couldn’t I see what I was inside

How did my young mind know what to hide

How was I ignorant of what I was

Staring in class at his awesome buzz

High school came, lettered in Football Hoops and track

Pres of the school, was joe cool, that’s a fact

After I graduated came the fall

When I realized the meaning of it all.

So I just like guys, like they like girls

Seems so nasty, breaks all the rules

But it fits right into my story

At least I found out before I’m forty

Years later I’m still full of the self hate

Decades and I still haven’t done a date

Is it training or some holy call

That keeps me standing counting stalls

I don’t know what to do, or where to turn to

Dad taught me all the rules but I burn to

Have a friend, a pal, and prime confidant

The memories still at night haunt.

Have I thrown enough days away

Are there games still to learn to play

Ladders to run on an cold gym floor

Workout with music until I’m sore.

This is halftime.   I don’t know where I’ll

End up next quarter, it may be foul

What game is this that I’ve been playing

Which coach to listen to what they’re saying

This is half time I don’t know where I’ll

End up next quarter, it may be foul

Which game is it that I’ve been playing

What coach should I listen to what they’re saying

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Four Corners

Four corners enclose the world. A swath of wood grain is the ground.
Here i die, but am safe. Here i steal, but am innocent. Here i lie, but my honor remains.
I seek your destruction, but remain your friend.
Outside these corners is different. The rule book vague. Do i make eye contact as they pass?
Do i say Hello to the one my heart latches to? Am i too eager? Am i not committed? Outside
the corners judgment is longer than a day and half the time rendered with secret verdict, of laws
I suppose it's an adventure. But you begin to write your own rules, the ones that seem to make
sense, then they are broken, by someone who hadn't read them. No book to appeal to.
Outside the corners is dangerous.
But here i am. Tuesday night, and the corners protect once again.
I own the world. I made you laugh. I made a poor trade.
But I always know what i should be doing. And failure is never final.
I know the four corners will only last so long. Someday the population will be 1. But here i am
safe. Here i am loved. Here my purpose is clear.
His name was Logan. We met. I didn't know what to do. We were outside the corners. Dice
rolls are much more dangerous here. Suddenly, i had a goal . To make him my best friend.
In the corners you throw all your resources into accomplishing your goal. Outside, you cannot.
But i did. At first it was fine. The rules in his book seemed to go along with mine. But i was
ignoring mine.
Guidance after guidance i disregarded. I did not want to worry about the resources poured into
this. I did not want to worry about what else i was letting lay fallow.
My goal was him.
I didn't catch him. He was uncatchable. Our winning conditions did not align. My winning
condition was impossible.
He had a girl in his sights.
Well, maybe, he will be ok with my odd winning conditions.
I lost. He left. 6 months of silence.
Then we chatted again. A new rules book was written. He had my heart, but i would proscribe
outer actions of love.
I would follow the rules, silently agreed upon.
And the friendship is good.
Sometimes i think of the pain i had when he left.
Sometimes i think of the pain of not knowing my winning condition.
Sometimes i think of the solace i find in those four corners. Where for a moment purpose
becomes clear. Where for a moment, i don't have to wonder what book to follow. where i am

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Lil' Dark Eyes

No one fears those dark, little eyes those dark chocolate eyes, those dark talking eyes

No one fears your bright little eyes 
Full of life and joy

No one stops those dark little eyes, those dark probing eyes, those dark darting eyes 

No one stops those dark puppy eyes as you walk in through the door

No one thought those dark sullen eyes, those dark shifty, eyes those dark evil eyes

No one thought those dark killing eyes would leave bodies on the floor

No one caught those dark baby eyes, those dark trusting eyes, those dark toddler eyes.  

No one caught those dark demon eyes as you play with other boys

Monday, October 10, 2016

A Poem for the Dark

The bodies scurry away,
They think it's a game they're about to play,
They find a hole in which to hide,
Quietly, the innocent abide.
The demon-thief will take from them,
The mother's dreams--what might have been,
Their stifled giggles would not emit,
If their stalker's face were lit.
But have a final laugh little
Ready or not, here i come.

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Dead Man Walking

I thought I saw you today

The naked profile of smooth head

It looked like you walking my way

The massive jowls hung like yours

But your joyful maw was not what I saw but a cold mistrustful face

At once I knew it could not be you for there was kindness in your wake.

You've been gone for so long that my mind ought to have sorted out

That the men passing by have yet to die so marking one as you is out

But the hole in my soul still pulls quick sand in.

And will never be filled til after I'm killed and high five your paw once again.

I let him pass by this impostering guy   And paid him no further mind

But the memories of you painfully joyful and true are the unyielding kind


The stone slab is waiting. It's surface empty.   I deposit my relationship on it.   But I do not light the fire.     Here God.  I give it to you.   I cannot read my feelings well enough but I trust in how I was raised.  So while I do not kill this sweet tender caring relationship I leave it here on the alter for you.   I leave a tender embrace after a trial.  I leave the first "good morning" of  day as well as the evening's final "good night". I leave the strength of two.  I leave the comfort of belonging.  I leave unity.  I leave the kiss.  I leave rough housing and playful pranks.  I leave comedy with an audience of two.  I leave a partner in old age. I leave a lovers eulogy.  I leave it all for you.  

 You may burn it  or you may return it.

I leave.  I do not wait your decision.  You know where to find me.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

One Last trip to the cabin

I remember when Will came out a gay across the pulpit in church.   I think the room was silent for 15 seconds, the congregation  stunned that this all American boy was homosexual, and Will, like an astronaut taking his first step onto the lunar surface, in a  new place, and he wasn't sure how to react.

I caught up with Will after the meeting, he was surrounded by well wishers, which no one thought was odd, but should have been, seeing what was normally taught across the pulpit.   There was a dissonance there, that couldn't stop our love for him, but would never leave him.

Our pastor compared Will's situation to a paraplegic in a wheel chair.  He sees others having fun, living life, but he can't get up and run.   The irony was not lost on my.   We asked Will to sit in that chair.   We told him he could not get out.   Why should we be surprised what happened when he did.

The drive to Will's family's cabin was long, and simplifying.  We started on a 8 lane high way, gradually it became four, then two.   Asphalt gave way to gravel.  An old cattle gate kept hunters and ATV's out.

Will was hot and cold as usual.   One minute he had us, Ryan, Josh and I, rolling in laughter, then he'd retreat into his deep sunk eyes.   I don't know if he spent more time in virtual isolation than normal that trip.  If he did, I didn't notice.  It was just normal for him.  Hot and cold.  Prone to outlandish humor with a waiter, and then stuttering when you asked him to change the radio.

But he always planned great adventures.

It was our last trip before school started and tests, and studying and girls,   For the three of us at least,  I hadn't seen Will date, boys or girls. But he was a great bro, always down for adventure, and sports.  I think he thought that would be enough.  I think we all though it would help him in his unique situation.

"Welcome to the Brohaus," Will exclaimed as we pulled into the wooded lot, that bordered the lake.  "No jobs, no school, no women, am I right?"

We all agreed and got to the work of emptying the old ford bronco that had been our loyal steed on the journey thus far.

Later that night, the campfire was roaring, the Dutch oven was empty save the crumbs of cobbler still clinging to the side, Will disappeared for a bit, as he was wont to do.

I think he was down by the lake for 30 minutes are so, as the three of us found more and more things to burn.

"Hey, guys, Check this out."

Will brought a large jug.

"Is that what I think it is?  Josh said.

"Oh my gosh, you brought the root beer.   I love it when you make this stuff"

"Yep, Drink up.  No one can go to bed before we drink this all." Will said.

"Dude' we'll be peeing all night"

"You know the window in the bedroom opens right?"

"Haha ok cool."

And the imbibing began, as much as some tee totaling Christians can imbibe.  it was a great batch.  Enough anise, molasses and honey to both have the bite and be sweet.

I blacked out.  I don't remember what happened next.  Ryan was still able to see, even though most of what he was was blurry, like a dream.

None of the three of us could move.  Will moved around with precision.  He drug us into the house, and lay us all in the beds.  Ryan said he stared at us for what seemed like hours, but in his state of numbness he couldn't be sure.

Will said things, to us.  Ryan couldn't understand it.  Several teams Will would walk up, and stand right by someone on the bed.  And just stare.

Ryan blacked out.

We came to the next day, I had the worst headache ever.  Ryan told us what he had seen.   We never saw will again.    Someone, most likely him had taken an ax to the living room and kitchen, wrecking the place.  The Ford was still in the parking lot.  We looked for him for hours.  Then his family, the congregation, and many volunteers.

I don't know what happened to my friend Will.   I like to think got up from the chair and walked away to some happiness.  But part of me thinks we'd find him at the bottom of the lake, still resting in the chair.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016


Scorched desert,  dried cracked land,  pale skeletons the former plant life roll on by, pushed by a dry, lip-cracking wind.

I slowly lurch along an uknown path.   Maybe I’m going further from help, but staying here is certain death.

How many have fallen on this hell floor.   How many have succumbed to it’s inferno after their bodies have given their last moisture to the immortal fire in the sky

I see them now.   Circling.   The direbird.  Harbingers of hopelessness.   This desert cannot take your life.   You must give it.

The Birds come when they know you have lost.  How many hours have I looked at the unchanging horizon.   No mountains,   no bumps, no changing,  just heat, and dust, and cracking skin, and dried blood.

Why do I keep moving.

They will say I gave up.   But what if I just chose to end the pain.

And so I bare my chest to the vultures above, and let them have me.

Str8 Fri3nds

His eyes light up in the comic book store.  “Come here Give me a hug.”  My friend, comic book guy, is pretty legit.   I go to read comics and buy them, but also saying hi to him is a cool side benefit.

Some days he wants to hug me.  Some days he doesn’t. 

He always initiates.  He is straight after all.   I have allowed all my straight relationships form with them taking the lead on stuff like that.   They know I’m gay.   I worry I’ll be “too gay” if I go in for a hug.  I worry their wives will freak out.  Yeah, I know I have issues.

I hate how I feel like I can’t trust myself with friends.   Not in a “gonna kiss them all night while they protest” type way.  But how I can’t trust myself to not go full on crush on them.   I hate how it flavors all my straight friendships.   I don’t blame them.  If anyone is to blame it’s me for worrying about it so much.

It’s like, I want more closeness in it then they do.  So I always just take what they can give.  Always watching, always being careful to not freak them, or their wives out.

And I do have good friendships.  But my damn gayness leaves me unfulfilled.   

Wednesday, July 20, 2016


Scorched desert,  dried cracked land,  pale skeletons the former plant life roll on by, pushed by a dry, lip cracking wind.

I slowly lurch along an uknown path.   Maybe I’m going further from help, but staying here is certain death.

How many have fallen on this hell floor.   How many have succumbed to it’s inferno after their bodies have given their last moisture to the immortal fire in the sky

I see them know.   Circling.   The direbird.  Harbingers of hopelessness.   This desert cannot take yourlife.   You must give it.

The Birds come when they know you have lost.  How many hours have I looked at the unchanging horizon.   No mountains,   no bumps, no changing,  just heat, and dust, and cracking skin, and dried blood.

Why do I keep moving.

They will say I gave up.   But what if I just chose to end the pain.

And so I bare my chest to the vultures above, and let them have me.

Monday, July 18, 2016


I'd say hi to you, if it wasn't a sin.

Natural blonde hair, pretty rare now days, especially with your mellow tan.  Not a tan you worked on in a booth; no one that came as a side effect of living.

Oh my. Those books you're reading. I've read them too.

Both of us, Alone on a Friday night in this cafe

Id say hi to you if the impulse wasn't born in sin.  

But oh my.  All black clothing.   Collared shirt. Just enough scruff. Almost enough to do it anyway.

What makes you a sin.

What makes this a sin

You don't look evil. But my nature makes you the same as stealing or idolatry.  

We are not promised to women but that doesn't matter.  It would be worse than cheating on a wife.

But then I see your smile,  it's not the smile of a heathen.  It's the smile of an angel.

 But if I say hi you will fall from heaven.

So if I stare at you Across the cafe, is that a sin?

Thursday, July 14, 2016

I am a rope

I am a rope.

Pulled, constricted, ratcheted, fraying.

I am a rope.

Made taut by the warring sides of my world locked in a ne’er ending tug of war.

I am a rope.

The gay says to date men, to mine own self be true.  And they pull with a sincere fervor.

The Mormon says to stay true to God, their grip is strengthened by the all mighty

The gay says a true god would want my Joy.

They Mormon says, that is the path to misery, that homosexuals are a construct of this world, non-existent in the next.

I am a rope, my fibers are fraying, tugged and stretched, never a rest.  The pulling escalates, the words become tinged with venom

The Mormon says your family loves you, and I believe them.  The gay says they hate you, should I believe them?

The gay says I deserve to have love.  The Mormon says, it’s cheap sex, not love.

I am a rope, stretched across a gulf of hatred.

I just want to leave.  I want to be done of this contest.   But I cannot.   Over the months, seasons and years, I hear their words, their hatred of the other, I am in the middle.  They fight for me, or is it the fight over me.  I don’t care anymore.  I am a rope.   A mere tool in their war. And I want to be set down.  But they won’t set me down.  Neither side will give an inch, and I cannot dismiss either.  My soul cannot choose, it cannot become one.  I was born this way, Mormon, I was born this way, gay.  My DNA, the very fibers of my being are both.   They cannot be expunged.   I fill the shame when I look toward the gay, I feel anger when I look toward God.

I am a rope. I have no rest.  I have no peace, if one side would just let me go, then I could rest.  If one side would let go for just a minute I could regroup.

But they are always there, fighting pulling, stretching constricting, telling me my existence is a somewhere along this line.

There is but one option left.  I am a rope.  I make a loop, I circle the base thirteen times.  Hoping someone will see what is happening.

I am a noose.   But without the tension, I have no power.  Will someone please let go?

They each pull tighter.  No one has interest in the middle ground.

And as they pull, the noose grows tighter, until I am hanged.

I dangle.  I sway in the breeze.  The gay and the Mormon look at each other across the expanse of my life.
For a moment, they lock eyes with compassion, sorrow, and acceptance.  Then they see how far the gap is, fear grips them.  They have never traversed that terrain before.

Uncomfortable they leave the swaying body. Look, over there is a new rope.   The uncertainty breaks.   They know what to do.  Hands grip with renewed fervor, if only they had pulled harder they might have saved me.

Are you the new rope?

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.

Thursday, March 3, 2016


Sea of Porcelain, opaque glass, perfection, flawless, you might have gasped

To touch the smoothness of my fa├žade, a life that is perfect before man and God.

You cannot see the cracks inside, near the surface they creep and hide

But break through they cannot yet, force of will does keep them set.

If you saw the cracks would your reaction be? Hatred, disgust, deserving pity.

You cannot see them.  I won't survive, the light of scrutiny on my inside

Please be content with my beautiful skin.   A sham like me can't let you in.

Friday, February 19, 2016

The Crush

The crush Every human being has a crush That other soul who make your red heart rush Turns your brain into a bowl of mush The universal Instagram loving crush They'll find their way into you heart Plant their seed with a dark art You'll be their captive from the start The lovie dovey who's my mommy crush. And then they leave. Suddenly they give you no reprieve The shredded heart beats heavy as it grieves Upon your bed your hopeless body heaves You can't fix the pain it's already done You wish there were two but you're only one Given the choice it's them over sun But their gone, and you're here, and the tangles where you two tangled are bare and cold Time may fix it. But years from now, you'll see a car or hear their call, and for an instant they are here again. For an instant you are whole again. But the car isn't theirs. The voice--you were wrong. And they're gone. Forever and forever, they are gone.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Who has to die?

I think I know why my body is so big. There is a second person inside of me. I eat so much to keep him in. To keep him from escaping. It's my only defense. If he escapes I will die There is a second body inside this old body. No one knows it. This old body is Mormon. Is proper. Is chaste. The inner body burns with passion. Do the people I pass have any idea what is in me. Do the know what I am trying to hide? He wants to break out leave the shell and fly. I am old and dying. He is old, but still an infant. If you were to see his naked corpse you would see a man who should have been born years ago. But I have kept him in. He is still an embryo. And when he breaks out he won't know what to do. So I feed him. And I hope the food will substitute for his passion. That my secret yearnings never are birthed.

Monday, January 25, 2016

To former pals

Remember when you said we were best friends—when I didn’t ask you to

You said you wanted that role in my life.  To be there thru and through

Where are you now, what’s up with this crap, did I complain too much

I though a friend was there for bad when everything went to muck

Oh well.  I see, was it because I had a dumb crush on you

I thought it was safe, to be a friend with a straight guy who wanted to.

I’m sorry for the feelings so strong, that may have chased you away

But it just kinda sucks when my alleged best friend, suddenly stopped acting that way.

What are we now?  Who even knows.  We still do stuff from time to time

But from half my texts, you don’t even respond, and your wife gives me the line

That your busy and booked for the rest of the month—which is ok to me

It’s just I didn’t ask you to be my best friend, you claimed that spot willingly

And I opened myself.   And I thought we were close, but I guess for a queer fag like me

Best friend means more than you were able to give, your friendship is given sparingly

There’s a hole in my life, now that you’ve taken a step back, I’m sorry I scared you away

I didn’t want these feelings, and I’d leave them if I could.  But my efforts still leave me gay.

I would make a shell around my life and soul, to not let another friend in

But, being alone really sucks smelly butts, so it’s time to begin once again. 

Thursday, January 14, 2016


The warm comfortable lie Such is the lie that forgives our base actions Such is the lie that feigns comfort and help to the weak and weary, but, offers no solution Such is the lie that blocks us from our future Such is the lie that keeps us in our past This lie takes the wounded and comforts them in place, while they still lie wounded on the battlefield, with the enemy advancing The cold hard damning lie It hates, it destroys from within. It stops progression by fear. It tells us we have no potential. It tells us friends are not real. It tells us that we are second class. It tells us to stay in one place out of fear

The warm lie gives way to the cold lie as we try to leave the field.   No longer able to keep us in unknown danger with sweet nothings whispered in our ear, the beautiful nurse transforms into a wraith, a banshee, who will tear our psyche apart if we will not stay with her.

Her lies keep her there, she cannot follow, but can only call out.   Can only scream.  Can only use words to keep us with her.  For all her thrashing she is as powerless as we make her, or as strong.