Burnt Fingers

For Gavin

I never leave a man without a souvenir—
a name, a mole, a memory, a pearl,
how dark, how light, how his sweat glands have
scattered scents about his frame like seeds

which flower into poems. In your case,
the poem has preceded you. You are
cold water on a blister here, as I
cool a burn I got when grabbing the

handle of a hot pan. I forgot
to find a good potholder, since I thought
I was grabbing you. I bet your lips
feel better on a blister. More like ice.

Or maybe liquid nitrogen. I’ll see.

No Agenda

For Gavin

I’ve never asked for an agenda, dear,
only you—content to follow where
a moment leads: another moment, Mars,
an elephant tattoo, a rabbit hutch,
mosquitoes, Maui, mountains, sex,

love plain and simple. Still, I must confess,
each poem I compose for you, I die
a bit in writing—mingling my dust
with yours. There might be better ways to spend
my afternoons. But not eternity.

Strange Meeting

For Gavin

Would we have over-looked each other
in passing—pissing at a gym urinal,
or shopping for some carrots at the store?

What a stupid question. Here we are.
My dick is thicker, thanks to you. Just like
when I stood in Waterstone’s, pulled your book

off the shelf, ignoring all the others. Did
your orange cover catch my eye? Your spine?
Did something you say seize my scrotum, “You

had better take me home if you want these
back, boy.” I’ve no idea. I just paid
my money, took you home. A whim. That choice

has altered all of my tomorrows now.
Graying—about the age I am today—
I looked at your portrait twelve years ago—

new to me as an exotic newt. Cute.
I studied your expression and compared
dust jacket photo to the words inside—

looking for insight. Here’s what I learned:
your bartender is Trebor, you like Poles,
you shoot wild cats. You wrote an epitaph

that rhymes, just like John Gay. Yes, we might have
never met. We might have died a thousand ways
today. But here we are. Imagine that.

Curriculum Vitae

For Gavin

Something human I can hold. If only
cameras captured living things. It seems like
we’re coming to that freakish place where
men are less mythic, monolithic, flesh
and blood. This must be where the talk-
ing stops, we start to smell something strange,
like gas. We look into each other’s eyes
and see our limits and desires for the first
time. “Is that the moon in there or me?”
We ask the odd homonculi reflected in
our skulls if these small images are souls,

our words wide open windows where
the breeze is soft and tropical. Or gas.
I’m in New York and I have nothing but
a leaky oven here to keep me warm—
words and pictures to manipulate:
the lease I signed allows no other pets.
Maybe I’ll make a cup of tea. First
a piss. It sounds like rain. Listen. Words.
They have no taste, no texture, and no smell.
These are my poems. They are sad—pale
yellow substitutes for the pink tongue

I crave to run along your clean crack.
I wish that words were more reassuring
like maps. I’ve been studying your woods,
you know, North Carolina, your intended
home. I would kill to climb a tree. Should I
apply for a position there? A pine cone?
A cat? A forest pixie? I’ll submit
a sample of my urine—my Curriculum
Vitae. Not my life. A sketch. A crude
outline in a tiddle-cup. Feel free
to test it, once you’ve fed the chickens.

My family is…they’re far away. I called
my granny twice a day for 20 years.
She had a massive stroke last summer, died
in church, just as I said the day before.
I never miss appointments. I’d prefer
a fling with Figaro to Madame Butterfly—
one happy ending to three hours of drama.
My favorite English poem is “To His
Coy Mistress.” My favorite poet must be this
guy, Gavin Dillard, although it is a photo-
finish: you and Shakespeare tied with Ovid.

My cock is 19 inches. Hard. It is.
I’ve never measured its circumference, nor
received complaints about its size—just groans—
which don’t count as complaints. I do like dogs.
I detest Mark Doty. Overwritten. Overrated.
I love one man at a time. I have this
trouble separating my dick from my heart.
I manage desolation with a dildo, since
it doesn’t leave an aftertaste like bad cologne.
I’d rather swim than dance, unless it is
to slam with skins. I worry I will die alone.

How I See You

For Gavin

Today, I saw a hunk in a wife-beater in
a picture, posing, freshly inked. His purple
elephants, linked trunk to tail, still looked
a little painful, pink, raw and tender
in places. Who was he? He looked like you.

No, not Gavin Geoffrey, in the flesh,
undressing for success—another you.
The tuft of armpit there, against your wife-
beating white, didn’t arouse those elephants,
though it affected parts of me. Tonight,

before I went to bed, I looked through all
the photos I possessed of you—younger,
older, picking out my favorite. You
sit beside a gorgeous Grammatophyllum,
wearing a black hoodie and glasses.

You’ll think I am crazy, but I can read
through your lenses better than you—what
is written there around your eyes by Time—
the poetry of God or Fate—whatever
name we assign the genius with the pen.

That man is mine. Remove it all—the frames,
the hoodie, orchid, elephants, old
and new tattoos—there’s my Naked Poet:
all that you are, just as you appear.
The essential man. So essential to me.

Us

For Gavin

We must be mutants then. The DNA
tests confirm it. And our love for combat
boots, angora sweaters, animals,
the ones we used to fuck like mad, but now
we must feed. We are nurses. We can

handle nukes in nylons. We absorb
cosmic rays. We write poems and plays
which baffle all the critics because love,
like life, is so damn baffling. Shakespeare
would understand us. Sappho. Housman.

Housman the best. Dog and cat lovers.
Apple people. Adam. Eve. I believe
a lad I liked and almost slept with once—
named Steve—no relation to the saint
I kissed goodbye and never saw again.

Who are we then? We few, that happy few,
the lucky ones, that band of others, who
stood at Stonewall, Dunkirk, and Thermopylae
against barbarians. We are their tongues,
lungs, vocal cords—the voices of the dead.

We are unlikely heroes, you and I:
naked, standing up against the sky.

A Stick of Incense

For Gavin

The litter other lovers
Leave always appears
So poignant in the dark:
Kleenex, condoms, sad
Old ghosts exchanging
Ectoplasmic spasms.

Let us leave nothing
Sad as this behind—
Not even our footprints—
Just our scent, the smell of
Something burning
Sweetly. Let us leave

A stick of incense.
Wherever we wind up,
We go together, hand
In hand—aware
That, fuck or suck, we
Knelt on holy ground.

Reading the Auspices

For Gavin


Yes, I am going to the priest.
There’s no point in concealing it.
I’ve lost two pounds. Nothing
Feels at home inside my mouth.
I cannot eat. Strange prodigies
Surround me. Look, just yesterday,

The clerical collar of a cock—
A very snug white foreskin
Belonging to a beautiful Pole—
Evaporated before my eyes—
In a puff of satanic smoke—
When I opened the steamroom door.

If this were not bad enough—
I suffered an erection when
I was assaulted in Grand Central
By cinnamon and baked apples—
So strong a scent the station
Took on Edenic overtones.

Tonight, I donned a sweaty black
Pair of running shorts and ran
To my bodega for beer—into
A pair of trannies. They squeezed
My testicles so hard with their eyes
My balls began to bleed like stones.

Are these good signs or bad? Each day
I get a billet doux—a poem.
I am in love, I think. But will
The poems cease if my guts
Run out of fresh entrails for you
To read, review, and analyze?

Four Koans

For Gavin

The sound of a pen
moving does not
a poem make, although
that pen may still contain
a multitude.

Your soul remains
more ink to me
than man: something
fluid I try
to grasp, like hope.

When I am tired,
my language sharp,
the mantra which
my heart repeats
is very soft—

so listen close.
Put your ear
against the phone
and close your eyes:
the sounds of home.

Strange Lights

For Gavin

Don’t think me cynical
if I find love incredible—
miraculous as that
distant day I first
heard it described in
the salty language sailors use
by a man I met inside
a misty waterfront tavern.
I stood a round of drinks to
hear his spectacular stories—
reports of fire dancing—
mastheads at midnight—
the South China Sea—
the center of violent typhoons.

I’ve read of love in shady
journals: strange reports—
couples coupling in cars
parked in desolate areas
seeing inexplicable lights
emanating from above.
Some say they were kidnapped
by cold-fingered aliens,
intimately probed,
then quietly returned to earth,
anesthetized. Still,
I have yet to see one
souvenir pillow
embroidered “Andromeda.”

The most credible account
I’ve found occurs inside
the Chronicles of Canterbury.
There, before the Feast
of St. John the Baptist,
in the year 1178,
five monks witnessed a
large meteor strike the moon:
its horns split in two—
spewing molten rock into
outerspace. This is
recorded by Gervase,
a reliable historian.
A man of God.

I think of myself when
I think of Gervase;
I think of strange lights when
I think of you. Clearly,
love is a celestial
event. You even
lead me to believe
all these stories are true.

A Prayer to Shiva

For Gavin


Thunder, thunder, thunder.
Bitch, bitch, bitch.
What kind of performance is this?
Here I am prostrate before you—
All humility—on
All fours, ass in the air,
A perfectly submissive creature.
What do you do? You bitch.
You topple empires, skip galaxies
Across the emptiness
Like rocks across a pond.
Lord, it must be boring
Out there in the universe.
Next thing you know you’ll start
Pulling wings off flies. What

A strange god you are.
Look, Shiva, before
You draw a black line through
Creation, or, on second thought,
Crumple the whole thing
Up, toss it over your
Great shoulders, like so
Much waste paper, why don’t
You take a lesson from
Zeus? Just drop by in a shower
Of gold—for a good time?
Just you and me. Why not
Make it tonight? The stars do not
Need you as much I do.
Loved or unloved, up there,
They will continue to shine.

The End of Rhyme

For Gavin

I do not have cold feet. I am afraid,
When this is finished, I will have to find
Something else to do besides write
Chatty letters and love poetry.

As much as coffee, your e-mails have
Become a part of my morning routine.
How should I wake up to a blank screen—
Nothing from Gavin Dillard? I mean,

We close this book, one chapter of our lives,
Begin another one tonight, in flesh,
Fresh ink, fresh paper, new possibilities.
The words we’ve written will remain. But

What will we make of all that we have done
When we wake in San Francisco? Will
We leave behind those separate lives
We lived before? How will we appear

To one another in the morning? How
Much older, fatter, or more frail,
A thousand years from now? I hope we’ll be
Associated then, at least on paper,

Less with art, than a belief in love.
Though Maui and New York, 6,000 miles,
Age, HIV, experience, different
Styles of writing and sleep schedules

Might have concluded things another way,
Before we found a publisher, you
And I found Bryan. Here we go then. Down.
I must put my laptop away. It seems

We’ve started our descent for Oakland.
I will be holding you in a few hours.
Meanwhile, I plan to close my eyes and pray
We both land safely. What else can I say?

Cashew Nuts

For Gavin

Cold feet? Not on this flight.
Just small horns and cloven hooves,
as behooves a ghoul like me:
poet, runner, Nabokov lover,
Olympic class badminton champion
according the tale I told Wendi—
a fan—a Facebook buddy—who
told me you were digging up
dirt on Eric Thomas Norris. I
fed her the false badmintion story.
You believed it. Hah! Now,
hold on to your testicles while I
bat them. Badminton. Honestly.
You’re still a little brother, eyes
gigantic, blossoming with wonder.
What will I do with you? Before
you answer that poetically,
curse me out for impudence, please
remember that I am at JFK
about to catch a plane. I’m starving,
surrounded by stale sandwiches,
globs of gray humus, sun-flower
seeds and other tasteless treats.
You probably had a nice breakfast:
SPAM and eggs, toasted pineapple,
washed down with some exotic tea
which only grows in Borneo.
I see you there, in Paradise,
purple dressing gown, buttering
a spelt muffin with a machete—
A touch of Noel Coward’s ennui.
See how Heaven favors you?
The Gods have punished me. I
accidentally bit into a cashew
concealed inside a packet of
mixed nuts. I am in trouble now,
practically erupting into hives.
The last time I ate cashews, I went
into anaphylactic shock, nearly
died, when my blood pressure
Collapsed. Calm down. Relax.
I took one bite this time. Enough
to almost kill me, just enough
to tighten up my throat—to give
my voice the necessary texture—
depth of tone—so you receive
a spectacular blow-job later.

Revenge

For Gavin


I am learning how to bleed
Without clotting. To be myself,
In other words, submit to what
My heart is telling me. You are
The most irritating prick I’ve
Never met. You won’t stop poking
Your nose in my most private parts.
You should be crucified. You

Ask for blood. Well, here it is.
Just leave my veins running in-
Definitely. I won’t run out.
I know I love you, since you bring
No peace of mind, no solace, no-
Thing, but insomnia and
Strange fevers at odd hours. God
Damn your appetite. Your mouth.

This is what I look forward to.
Torment. Waking up at 4:00
AM, checking my e-mail
To see if you have written. No.
You shit and trample on my dreams
Even when you say nice things.
Absurd. You—you sleep peacefully
A million miles away. That is

Not fair. That is not fair at all.
So I am sending a cloud of
Mosquitoes to drive you mad.
A few may have malaria,
So you had better smack the right ones.
They will be there, biting you,
Buzzing in your ears tonight,
So you can feel what I feel. Now.

Mosquitoes

For Gavin


You burned all your wood last night, you say.
Let’s see if I have anything you can
Haul back to Maui for those wretched nights—
When you’re hemmed in by darkness, pouring rain,
Trapped in the tropics, slapping phantoms, those
Mosquitoes sucking all your blood away.

I’ll look around New York, see what I have:
A coffee table, couch, bed, some books—
Mostly memorized. My life is yours,
If you can carry it. Chop it up. Stick
It in your hearth, or build a fire out back—
Invite the insects to enjoy the blaze.

None of my possessions make sense anymore
Except as kindling. What good are books
In bed—even yours? All I want is you.
Poems might as well be mosquitoes for all
The joy they give. Burn them. Burn everything.
Fuck everything. Let’s go somewhere else and live.

The Lay Of The Land

For Gavin

However the topography turns out—
How green the grass, how succulent the clover,
How many trees, the quantity of shade,
How the branches vary through the seasons,

Through all weathers, fair or foul, if clouds
Define the upper boundaries of the place,
If a sprinkling of thistles, stars, should form
The borders I bump up against—I know

These features, fences, all of these limits
Amount to nothing—one of those old jokes
Time and space will make at our expense.
I feel your arms enfolding me, like Freddy,

That bright black billy in your photograph.
The area inside your heart is vast
According to our numbers. See, we are
No ordinary goats. We’ve done the math.

Mundus Cuniculi

For Gavin

Of all your incarnations—
from growling Siva to
pipe blowing Pan,
to Miss Emily Dick-
inson, who borrows your
mouth, occasionally,
whispering suggestions
into my pink, erect
blushingly sensitive
rabbit ears—this curious
blend of personnae—
Adam and Hadrian—
animal man and Roman
emperor—suits
your affections best.

No fig leaves for you,
no Eden either, now
painfully aware how
booby-trapped apples
tend to explode.
You mind your mattock,
count your chickens,
look after your goats,
having learned the hard
way about gardens:
you acknowledge your
past, then bathe
your ass. Paradise—
you have other things—
other concerns. Like Eve,

you are a busy man.
you have concrete
to pour—a Mundus
Cuniculi—a Bunny
World to build—
a legacy to leave
behind for all
the furry creatures
who have been nursed
in your lap, called
your pubic bone
a home. I think
when you depart this
volcanic island
sanctuary, Maui, for

the life hereafter, Black
Mountain, North
Carolina, no one
will feel abandoned by
an absconded God
goofing off in Asheville.
Bunny World will
remain: evidence a
few emperors exist
besides Caligula.
I bet, in the future,
small mammals will regard
your works with wonder, like
lost hikers do the wall
of Hadrian. (Who,
you know, was gay.)

Commuter Blues

For Gavin

Leaning against a leaky lav-
This morning on the 8:04
Express, hurtling toward another
Day in New York, I read the piece

You sent last night. I felt so sad.
The sun seemed bright and pointless—
A single knitting needle stuck
Through a big ball of orange yarn.

I’ve nothing to look forward to—
There’s nothing on my schedule—
Except the poem I will write
For you. I’m always happy to

Write poems. But I’m afraid
Art is not enough. No
Matter what I say, or do,
That happy feeling never lasts.

Animal Sanctuary

For Gavin

I’m sure your rabbits will be happy there.
Yours sounds much friendlier than mine—
That asylum I was once placed in—
Church: a clean, cadaverous Baptist
Interior, supported by dark ribs,
A space capable of accommodating
A thousand souls according to the fire
Code restrictions. It was Hell. Our
Choir sang hymns in satin pajamas, blue,
Piano on the left, organ on the right,
A madman in the middle. I would poke
Holes in his upholstery with a pencil
I kept sharp for that specific purpose.
I longed for an Apocalypse—a really
Loud fart—a nuclear catastrophe—
A final trumpet—to put an end to the
Announcements—meetings, births, deaths—
Epistles to the Galatians, Colossians,
Galoshes, Dalmatians, and the wrinkly
Sound of hands, in unison, just
Flipping pages. It went on forever.
The Lord’s Supper proved such a meager
Meal, hardly even a snack, really—
Matzo fragments and a thimble of Welch’s
Grape juice—which I was forbidden. (I
Was not baptized.) I wanted to get
Out, go to McDonald’s, anywhere,
For lunch. I poked the pew impatiently,
I drew a zillion pairs of Golden Arches—
MMMMMM—in the back of my Bible—
Filling up the white end pages—those
God left blank after Revelations. I
Loved the hymns. I loathed the sermons. They
Ended with Amens at one, with my
Stomach angrily growling. That’s why
I am so glad you’re adding your own
Ecclesiastical flair to that Maui
Sanctuary. I bet communion in
Any safe haven you would devise
Would keep demented parsons out, but still
Admit a few strange boys in bunny suits—
Those looking to gnaw on a raw carrot,
Or thirsty for some unusual tipple,
You would smile and generously provide.

The Camel

For Gavin


The love is in the writing, yes. It is
This pencil—architect of all my hopes.
I suck on my eraser, like a nipple.
The friction of the lead provides some heat.
The little squiggles which adorn my man-
Uscript, swim wonderfully between the
Lines, like freshly ejected sperm,
Seeking, out of instinct, a nice, warm
Place they can kick off their flippers,
Crack a Michelob, exhausted, and unwind.
A mouth, a hand, some other place. Who knows?

Your last poem mentioned your career,
Retiring from porn, continuing to appear
Naked, reading poetry in California.
I was in college then, learning from my dad
Sucking cock was probably something
A boy in Buffalo ought not to do.
Soon after he discovered my diary,
I found myself searching for a butt one
Night along the shoulder of a road
So dark it seemed to lead into a future
Paved entirely in blackness, coal.

A scattering of stars, a slice of Moon,
The prick of a pink planet, Mars, I think,
Took pity on me, like the passing cars.
Those headlights allowed me to pick out
A discarded pack of Camels which
Concealed one cigarette and puff of air.
How incredible that find: how Moon
And Mars, Camel and cars, kept
Me company that night. But the sparks
Of a tossed Marlboro let me smoke
Where I was going—a dim, orange glow.

I thanked the driver as he sped away,
Truck dwindling to a pair of rubies. I
Had no matches in my pocket—no-
Thing useful, no money, no house keys:
A Latin book in my backpack, Ovid’s
Metamorphoses, toothbrush, clothes,
Socks and soiled underwear. And still
How lucky I felt—and not too cold—
Now that I could smoke. The poetry
We’d write together was so far away—
Farther than Mars, that truck driver, you

Standing naked in L.A. And love,
While that Camel lasted, didn’t seem
A possibility all that remote.