Is This What I Have to Look Forward To? (Let a Fag Know)

[Verse 1]
When my skin is drooping
And my hair is graying,
Will I still be drooling
Over some young play thing?
When my mind is slippery
And I can’t hold on,
Will I live in misery
Knowing that love has gone?

[Chorus]
Cuz I don’t even know what to do
(Let a fag know)
Is this what I have to look forward to?

[Verse 2]
If it hasn’t happened yet
When will it ever?
Trolling the webs for sex
Yeah, it don’t get much better
And will I stand in bars,
Waiting til they close
To hustle boys in cars?
Oh, god only knows

[Chorus]
Cuz my heart ain’t givin’ up no clues
(Let a fag know)
Is this what I have to look forward to?

[Bridge]
Can old fags turn new tricks?
Or still post ass and dick pics?
Can’t or won’t settle, so what choice is there?
But to keep playing the game, or give up in despair
Do we forsake dignity for vanity—
Choosing to live and die trivially?

[Verse 3]
Though I know it sounds cheesy
I can’t lie to myself
I want to wake up at sixty
In bed with someone else
We’re born alone, does that mean
We must die lonely?
I wanna fill the in-between
Knowing someone loved me

[Chorus]
Despite the answer, I must pursue
(Let a fag know)
Is this what I have to look forward to?

Baggage

Stowed away over years
Heavy the burden to bear
Fears, doubts, secrets and pains
Zipped up tight never complain

Insecurity begets vanity
Narcissus in the city
Drowns in pool of motor oil
Sheds himself of mortal coil

Bundle over bundle, stacked from ground
Stumble then we crumble, we all fall down
Unpack your bags and pinpoint the spot
Where you got what you want and lost what you got

Lonely is the hunter of affection
Unattainable as perfection
When sought with desperation
Rather than anticipation

Frustration, at lost chances
Regret’s odd postures and stances
In shadows on walls at night
Gloomy, under covers at sight

Bundle over bundle, stacked from ground
Stumble then we crumble, we all fall down
Unpack your bags and pinpoint the spot
Where you got what you want and lost what you got

Withdrawn, his head bowed
Apart from maddening crowds
Abandoned longing in stare
Hope, she is no longer there

No, not gone, only in hiding
The one principle in guiding
A beacon through life’s forest
Keeping on the light for us

Bundle over bundle, stacked from ground
Stumble then we crumble, we all fall down
Unpack your bags and pinpoint the spot
Where you got what you want and lost what you got

I'll Be Home at Last

It was a cheesy grin.
I knew it at the time, but in retrospect, it seems wider, more ridiculous. As if my mouth had stretched to enclose the entire auditorium. But how could I help it? After all, “it” was, up to that time, the proudest moment of my life. The bright lights on the stage. I was one of the few, the top ten percent—now, I’m not bragging, just clarifying—that could sit on the stage. Okay, perhaps a bit of the braggart. A very small bit. Just allow it to me this once. When Mr. Piccolo called my name, the years leading up to that very moment coalesced and flashed like one of the cameras “out there.” Among the audience. And for that moment, they were there for me. Only me. So I cheesed. I was going to college in the city in the fall, finally leaving behind this town and all that went with it. My friends, my family, my childhood home…and I was beyond ecstatic. I was proud, ebullient, hopeful, on top of the fucking world. Of course, the only way from there is down.

As I am writing this, I am sitting on a blow-up mattress incapable of remaining blown up to such a degree that I always wake up at some improbable angle, my head this way my legs that. I am back in this town. I am stoned. But that, if you knew me, is a given. I am horny. And that, if you know me, is a given. I am dreaming. I wasn’t sure of it at first, but I know now. I am dreaming. If I weren’t, I’d be tired. I don’t know what time it is, but I know I should be tired. Just to make sure, though, I conjure a knife and slash my wrists. There is no pain, only an awesome sensation. There is no blood. Instead, Technicolor butterflies flow down my arm, pooling, suspended, in mid-air. I turn my head and I see the stage at graduation, while sitting in my room on my dilapidated air mattress. I walk on, pajama-clad, and face the audience. The overhead lights blind me and I avert my eyes, looking behind me. There’s Sheena Fitzsimmons. And there’s Greg Almond. And there, the valedictorian, Marsha Warfield. Prim and proper.

I turn back to the crowd, fire in my eyes. Not literally, though I suppose they could have glowed a bit. I am wearing a sequined pantsuit, my hair matted against my forehead, my mascara threatening to run. I hear the opening chords to “Maybe This Time,” from Cabaret. Liza, is that me? I open my mouth, but it’s my shaky rasp of a voice that comes out. “Maybe this time….I’ll be lucky. Maybe this time, he’ll stay.” I steel my spine, breathe from my diaphragm. This is it. This is my chance to prove to them, to prove to everyone out there, and most importantly, to prove to myself, that I can do this. That I can shine . I pour myself into the song and I vibrate in and out, alongside the music. It and I are one, complementing and existing for one another. “Maybe this time, for the first time, love won’t hurry away.” I want to believe it so badly my body shakes. It’s no longer nerves. The audience, my dear audience, doesn’t matter. It’s up to me, now. Up to me to make them believe, to make them understand. It’s not entertainment, not just entertainment, anyway. This is magic. And I am the spellbinder. I take a deep breath.

The music breathes. Convulses, pops up, churning beneath me, on top of me, inside me. My voice penetrates its notes. We move together, there in the fluorescent dark, “Everybody…loves a winner, so nobody love me.” But I know that isn’t true, it can’t be, it simply can’t. The faceless crowd at the footlights, I can feel their eyes on me, feel their hearts beating with mine. They love me because I’m up here, and they’re down there. And I’m up here to fulfill something in themselves that they either cannot fulfill themselves or are too afraid to attempt. I speak to their emotion, to their experiences. Here I am, I’m here for you! I am your hopes and dreams, your fears and anxieties, I am your son, your daughter, your mother, your lover, your best friend, that stranger on the corner with whom you locked eyes earlier, only to quickly turn away. I am the bridge. From dream to reality, from reality to transcendence. And I am here for you.

“Maybe this time…MAYBE THIS TIIIIMMMMMEEE, I’ll WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNN!!!!” The note seems to go on forever. I never want it to stop.

Darkness. The lights go out. There is nothing, only silence and the dark. What happened, I wonder. Where is everyone? Was I not good enough? I throw my head back and—thank god—it begins. The applause. Sweeping, intense, they take me in their clapping hands. I am overjoyed but I am saddened. It is over now. The illusion, the charade, the performance. Looking out into the audience, the lights are not as bright as they once were. And again I am in my pajamas, but with my pointy grad hat and tassel. Sheena and Greg and Marsha and everyone else are still behind me. Weren’t they always? Mr. Piccolo is waiting at the other side of the stage, paper in hand. Nervously, I make my way over to him and accept my diploma. Or whatever it is. It’s heavy, though impossibly small. I look at my hands to see that I’m holding what appears to be a star. I am lost in its radiance. I sit down in my dilapidated bed. It feels firm now. Suddenly, I’m sleepy. I put the glowing star by my bed and drift off into consciousness.

The Drought of Adrian

Another night. The glow of the television upon his forehead. Radiation poisoning, he thought. How far was the set supposed to be, in order to be safe? Safety, comfort, security. This, his apartment, was everything he ever needed, a kitchen, a bathroom, a couch, his laptop and his TV. Here, he could spend the rest of his days and there was a tremendous sense of accomplishment accompanying that thought. He relished coming home some nights. To exit the loud, crashing world, after being pushed and pushing this way and that, battling others for space, for money, for survival only to return from this unceasing war for a few hours of peace until he was called to action, once again, in the morning, around 5:50 AM. Yet, some nights felt like just another night. Those nights, he wanted to never return to that stupid, cramped apartment in Harlem, East 133rd St, to bypass the hot, crowded, jerky six train. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do, not that he would have anyone with whom to do anything with anyway, but he longed for the days of old. Of college, when the end of the day signaled the beginning of something. Where friends were across the hall, or a flight of stairs away. He could go to bed at all hours of the night and still wake up for class the next morning, or not. There was a freedom to those days that he had failed to realize, at that time, existed. All there was, he remembered thinking at age nineteen, was class, more class, a part time job and homework. It was slavery to the university system, was it not? He anticipated the end of college, the end of schedules and routine. But, with college’s end, came the end of carefreeishness. Should that ever be considered a legitimate word. The hours of the day blended into subway rides, coffee runs, data sheets, phone calls, blah, blah and more blah til he could scarcely remember what he had even accomplished earlier. Who was he kidding, he thought. Nothing was accomplished today. Or yesterday, the day before, etc, etc. And nothing will be accomplished tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after, in continuum, forever and ever until he dies. At his desk, or in this apartment, which was not as safe and comfortable and secure as it had been a minute ago. Now, it was suffocating. Confining.

Outdoors greeted him with its mild indifference, blowing gently through his open jacket. Still undecided about where he was going or what he was doing, Adrian walked to the subway. There had to be somewhere that mystical tube could take him. Eschewing his headphones and obligatory reading material, Adrian rode the six train. He wanted to feel, to experience the train, naked of his usual securities. Once the train arrived, the initial rebelliousness of this act crumbled into anxiety and he spent the entire ride down to Union Square with his eyes alternately buried betwixt his legs, or angling up at the ads for skin care treatment with an ethereal fascination. Union Square seemed the logical choice. He had spent many a night there in his youth—was his youth over, was that why he referred to it in the past tense?—and there was always something going on around there. He reached for his phone. Maybe he could give an old friend he hadn’t seen in ages a call under the pretense of catching up. Really, though, he was lonely and it was destroying him. He needed to be in the company of others just to feel all right again. Though he hadn’t felt all right since probably junior year. That was the last time he and Simon had last been together. They had dated since senior year in high school, after a few years of mild adolescent curiosity had matured into a shared understanding and appreciation. They both left Jersey to come to the city for school, Adrian downtown, Simon, uptown. Freshman year was the happiest time in his life and would remain so, he knew rather than thought. Everything was so new! He and Simon had a freedom to be with each other that they had never experienced in their smallish town and the city was their playground. Adrian’s grades suffered as a result of how much time they spent together, but he felt like a fictional character made flesh. Their love affair—for it must have been love…?—was too idyllic to be completely real. Even if the past is the best kind of cosmetic, embellishing and concealing. To return home to Jersey that summer was to wake up from a pleasant dream one knew eventually had to end, despite one’s best efforts to persist in sleep. They barely saw each other, Adrian and Simon. Adrian waited tables while Simon was a counselor at a day camp. And god did he hate children. The job was torture for him and barely paid minimum wage, but it was the only thing he could find. If he had been searching, as Adrian advised him, in April, like he had, then he could have avoided that post. But Simon never did listen, not out of spite, only because it was not in him. He was a talker and loved to share his opinions on everything, whether his interlocutor wanted to hear it or not. Still, they found time to be with each other. Almost every Friday, they would take their paychecks and blow it all in the city. Adrian sighed. He hadn’t indulged in anything in so long. Not even a new jacket, which would have proved rather essential considering the condition of his present one.

He filed through the names in his cell phone twice, avoiding then lingering on S. He realized then that he had no real friends. Not anymore. Once, he was never want for activities or activity partners. He and Simon would go out every night of the week, either by themselves or with a group. Sophomore year, both faced with sagging grades, Adrian and Simon decided to cut back on their time together, but still went out a few nights of the week. A day could not go by without an hour-long phone call or a few dozen text messages or a couple hours chatting online. If not one then all of the above. Then with midterms, the calls became shorter, the texts and chats fewer and suspicion greater. They had their first fight on Halloween. When later pressed, neither could remember what the fight was entirely about, but it was the first of many. During winter break, they mutually decided to see other people, only to hook up with the assistance of free rum and burning loins, at a party celebrating the return from vacation to the rigors of university life. Officially back on, everything was good again, but the impending shadow of doom was easier to notice now that it had encroached upon their happiness. Their relationship was dying, only Adrian did not know it at the time. Yes, tensions might have been slightly higher, but if it was truly love—for it must have been love—they would work through their problems. The uneasiness between them, the forced kindnesses in hope of avoiding any conflict, the quick capitulation resulting from any conflict unsuccessfully avoided. By junior year, happiness was a façade, replaced by jealousy, bitterness and uncertainty. They broke up, this time not as mutually, with Simon dealing the deathly blow. Adrian did not take it well and most would say he never quite recovered. He never dated anyone after Simon, who seemed impervious to Adrian’s pain. Except once. A drunken phone call. Do you miss me? I’ve always missed you. Can I come up...? Sure. That was the last time Adrian had sex, a year after it had all ended, five years from the dreary existence he had cultivated for himself. He didn’t want to hide, but he could feel the hot tears stinging his eyes. Ducking into a bar, he bolted for the bathroom, locking the door behind him, stared into the mirror and wondered why he had let himself fall so hard. Fall so hard in love, fall so hard out of it, then fall so hard into nothingness. The friends he had once had, alienated by his morose behavior and refusal to give up the ghost, stopped calling. He imaged that there was a moment of indecision, whether to side with him or Simon. After all, they had the same group, thus someone had to be the loser. And Adrian played the role well. Too well, in fact. He pushed the devoted ones away, Chris, Sandra, Frankie, now he missed them and needed them so. He hadn’t seen any of them in years, too busy with work and self-pity, would they care to hear from him? Were there numbers still the same? He knew Chris had moved back to Cisco, out of necessity not choice. Perhaps, he thought, they could meet up just this once, for old times’ sake. He almost dialed Sandra, who was the last to leave. She indulged in his morose wanderings of the park, his pitiable poetry and his self-imposed exile, but even she, patient, understanding if a bit harsh, Sandra, could not fight to love him. He had to love himself….And Frankie. A rush of blood below the belt. He wondered if Frankie was still as beautiful. When he and Simon broke up for the first time, Frankie was quick to move in. Herding Adrian to bars and clubs, out to parties, bringing over movies and wine. Before he and Simon reconciled, he and Frankie, with the aid of cheap wine and “The Lady Eve,” made out sloppily, but passionately, before Adrian called a cease and desist. Frankie, although miffed, understood and respected his decision. After he and Simon, broke up for the last time, Frankie was in a relationship of his own, a fact that Adrian tried to overlook. After making an ass out of himself, in front of a few familiar faces no less—at one point proclaiming how “pathetic” Frankie was for missing out on an opportunity to have his way with him then spilling his drink on Frankie’s then boyfriend—Adrian withdrew from further contact with him. In the mirror, he saw a young man of twenty-six, a little overweight, in need of a haircut and a shave, but otherwise, passably attractive, laugh in spite of himself. Then, noticing the posters of a naked Josephine Baker on the walls, he knew he had been here before. A home away from home, it once was. Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night for three straight years. Wiping his face, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to have a drink, for old times’ sake, at his old haunt. He was already there, after all.

“Rum and coke, please.” The bartender, short, gruff, muscular and handsome— “Actually, could you make that a diet coke,” Adrian added with a smile—had been there during his glory days. When he and Simon and their coterie of fabulous friends, drinking with fake IDs, would spend all night dancing and singing along to the jukebox. As the owners seemed perfectly adamant about adding any songs released after 1983, disco lived a life long after its supposed death. Drink in hand, Adrian perused the selection. Disappointed to find a few of today’s hits sprinkled through, he finally settled on the Emotions, “Best of My Love.” The song almost immediately started, a welcome reprieve from the time when one could and would wait an entire night to hear their song, but then again, the bar was a lot more crowded back then. That Tuesday night, there were only a handful of boozers and cruisers out. But it was early still. Adrian glanced at his watch. 9:45. Yikes, he thought. And he was already getting tired. His youth, as he had known it, was indeed over. Then what was this that he was doing now? Not middle age, it was too soon for that. What was this, this grey area? He was nearing thirty and for the first time the idea frightened him. What if he never had sex again? What if he worked at the same company, hating his life everyday for the next forty years until retirement? Then what? He already felt life was at an end at twenty-six, what of sixty-six? Seventy? The thought was too great for a sober mind. “Another, please,” Adrian politely asked while extending his empty glass.

Countless rum and diet cokes later, the room was a crowded, sweaty disco-fueled orgy. Adrian’s shyness, melancholy and misery dissipated and he danced erratically, but joyfully, to Cheryl Lynn’s “Got to Be Real.” He remembered last when he danced like this. It was with Simon. They always moved so well together, vertically and horizontally. He missed him desperately then, but he was also happy, he realized. He was happy he had been able to feel love and to feel loved, even if it didn’t work out. Then he felt impossibly silly that he had let this relationship, albeit a very important relationship, rule his life for the past ten years. He threw his head back and laughed loudly, the sight of which confused everyone around him. Adrian did not care. This. Yes, this was the first time in a long time he had felt so free and he would have no one encroach upon this freedom. Freedom, happiness, and all they entailed must be fought for. That was life. The struggle—that was life. “But what am I struggling for?” Adrian stood in the middle of the dance floor, his head slightly cocked to the side, wondering just what he had been doing with his life for the past five years. Then a large, strong hand wrapped itself around his waist. He felt the hard, pulsing bulge against his rear and he in turn began to bulge. His breath shortened, his heart drummed and his mind raced, wondering what to do next. Apparently his mind was a bit slow on the uptake, as by the time he decided to turn around and see in whose powerful grip he was held, he was already kissing the stranger. Hungrily, ferociously. The stranger reciprocated, to such an extent that their embrace became violent, almost animalistic. Adrian ran his hands up and down the man’s broad, firm back, grabbed his ample buttocks, and feverishly pushed his erection against his. He cupped the man’s face with his hands, tantalized by the thick beard, unable to quell his passion. Never let go, he thought. Whatever you do, never let go. His eyes closed, he surrendered to the stranger, digging his fingernails into his back. A slight whimper. Then he felt them, he and the man, moving. Not dancing, but moving with direction and purpose. They were suddenly outside.

He opened his eyes. The man was tall, thick, covered in full, round muscle, but most likely from some form of hard labor rather than through daily gym exercise, of which the gays were so fond. His beard covered a decidedly boyish face, but he had to be in his late twenties/ early thirties. His eyes sparkled in the night. “Uh, um, hi…” Adrian stumbled for words, but his mouth was worn and ill prepared for verbal discourse. The man extended his big, rough hand and in a voice not quite as deep as one might have thought, introducing himself as Terry.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So…”

“So…wanna get outta here?”

Adrian considered Terry’s proposition. On the one had, it had been over five years since his last sexual experience…. “Okay.” There was no other hand at this point. The rum had done its part to free him of his inhibitions, now destiny had intervened, it seemed, to cure him of this drought. Whether he would enjoy being with Terry or not, did not matter to Adrian. Where their chance encounter would lead them was also trivial. Clasping his hand in Terry’s, Adrian was happy to just share a part of himself with someone else for a change. Terry hailed them a cab and they rode to Thirty-second Street where Terry shared a decent-sized apartment. His roommate was conveniently out of town for the week. Adrian relished the times Terry kissed him, wanting only to be kissed again and again until the night disappeared forever. His lips were so soft, his body so firm and as they clumsily made his way into Terry’s building, he was thankful that this had not simply been yet another night.

Circles: Hooker Boots

The circle is oddly quiet. There are no ladies of the night, no drug dealers, not even a crazy out on a porch. The streetlights give the neighborhood a soft, effulgent glow and the stars are visible in the navy sky. It is peaceful. Therefore, something bad must be brewing.

Artemis’ car screeches to a stop, half on the curb. “That’s good right?”

“I think so.”

Artemis and Mercutio, step out into the night air, and are immediately put ill at ease.

“What’s that smell?” Mercutio asks.

“Speekougphie.” Pronounced Spee-coffee, it is in upstate, well, really midstate, lower midstate at that, but to New York City, anything north of it is upstate, New York.

“Smells like regret and dead hooker.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.” Artemis rounds her car to inspect her parking job. “Eh. I’ll fix it in the morning.”

“I’m fine with that.” They then enter the house of flowers.

Everyone knows the house of flowers. It is the only house on the circle that bursts with life, amidst all the rot and decay. To understand the circle, one must live on it. Technically, it’s called a square. Reservoir Square, to be exact. But a square has corners and sides, something like four, whereas Reservoir Square was clearly a circle. Or at least an oval. To the neighboring streets, though, it was referred to fondly as the Hooker Circle. You’d see them all times of the day, decrepit, cracked out, in nothing but a bra and a short denim skirt that was out of fashion when they fished it out of the garbage five years ago. They were rather nice though. Artemis’ mother was friends with many of them. Which is why what happened next was no big surprise.

“Did you hear the doorbell?”

Mercutio coughs and chokes in response.

“I wonder who it is? It’s like…what time is it?”

Mercutio begins to cry from the lack of oxygen, while putting up two fingers.

“Really? That late?”

Mercutio nods then falls on the floor.

“You okay?”

Mercuito extends one limp hand out to pass the marijuana wrapped in a hollowed out cigar, what the kids refer to as a blunt, to Artemis. Then, lifting his head off the carpet of Artemis’ bedroom floor, remarks, “Mmm, that’s good stuff. I’m just going to look for that lung I coughed up.” He flips over onto his stomach and begins to examine the floor.

“Check under the bed. But seriously, who the fuck’s ringing our doorbell at two in the morning?”

“I dunno. Someone’s always ringing our doorbell at random times.”

“And mommy stayed opening the door. And she wonders why hobos sleep in her garden.”

“She’s practically inviting them in. Found it!” Successful, Mercutio returns to his seat on Artemis’ bed.

“Yay! Where was it?”

“I was laying on it. You wanna go see who it was?”

“Not really.” Artemis continues to puff on the blunt, while watching apes attack and eat each other for dominance in the jungles of Africa or Asia. Or maybe it’s the Phillipines. Or somewhere in the ocean. But apparently, these apes are no joke. When one gang of apes’ territory is threatened by another gang, a war breaks out. It’s all screeching and feces flying, apes falling out of trees, it’s pretty brutal stuff. Then, the losing gang, aside from losing the battle for the territory, get their skulls bashed in and are eaten by the victors. “Hmm, I’m hungry.”

“Yeah me too. Monkey brains?”

“Mmm. Yes please. “

“I also feel the desire to beat some crackheads down in the streets.”

“Let’s get on that.”

Down the darkened stairway, they journey to find nourishment in the kitchen notorious for its lack of sustenance. On the last step, Artemis trips over something.

“Ow, son of a BITCH, what is that?”

Mercutio turns on the hall light. At the bottom of the stairs sits a pair of white go-go boots.

“Yes, let’s put our shoes right there, at the bottom of the steps, the most convenient place in the world. I hate my mother.”

“Are they her shoes?”

“I dunno, I just hate that bitch.”

“Whose shoes are these?”

From her tower, Hera hears the commotion downstairs and asks from behind closed doors, “Hello?”

Artemis, slowly getting up while favoring her left leg asks, “Did you put these damn shoes at the bottom of the steps?”

“I didn’t put them at the bottom of the steps. They were next to the door.”

“No, they were at the bottom of the steps.”

“Well, I didn’t put them there.”

“Who did then? Moo? Dragon?” The house of flowers is also the house of menagerie. Five cats, from youngest to oldest, Moo, FuzzFoot, Evil, Blue and Woola, one severely aged dog, Dragon, a snake, Alice, a lizard, Samson, a hamster, Swan and a little freshwater turtle that has yet to be named.

“You’re mean.”

“Whose shoes are these?” Mercutio interjected.

“Starla’s.”

“Starla?” The kids wondered in conjunction.

Hera opened her door and descended the staircase. “Yeah, Starla.”

Mercutio and Artemis looked at each other.

“And Starla is...?’

“You know, Starla. She’s a lady of the night.”

“These are hooker boots?”

“I broke my ankle and almost died on a pair of freaking hooker boots?”

“Oh stop it,” Hera insisted, “you did no such thing. You’re ankle’s fine.”

“You can tell that to my lawyer, Sir.”

“Why are hooker boots at the bottom of our staircase?” Mercutio persists.

“I swear they were next to the door.”

“Yeah, well I swear my ankle’s broken.”

“She just asked me to hold onto them for a little bit.”

“Do you see how she just ignores me like I don’t exist?” Artemis inquires to both of them and neither of them at once.

“How long’s a bit?”

“I don’t know, I said okay. She’s a good woman. She once helped me bring my groceries inside.”

“If it’s okay with you both, I’m just going to limp off to die somewhere.” Artemis drags her left leg over to a couch and sinks into it.

“What size are they?” Mercutio wonders, not so secretly hoping he can try them on, then realizing that perhaps that would not be the most kosher thing in the world is relieved when Hera tells him they are “like a seven/eight.”

“Well, then…I’m hungry.”

“Me too and there’s nothing to eat.”

“I’m hungry too, and I’m pretty sure I need to go to the hospital.” Artemis sits with her leg elevated on a pillow.

Mercutio cranes his neck and asks her if she’s all right.

“Um, no. I think my ankle’s broken because of my stupid mother and her stupid hooker friend’s stupid hooker boots.”

“Well, if you’re going to be unpleasant, I’m going back upstairs. Good night,” Hera says airily and ascends the staircase to her tower.

“I hate that woman.”

Mercutio walks over to his friend and taps her ankle.

“Ow! Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. Does it hurt?”

Artemis and Mercutio drive to the emergency room, narrowly avoiding hitting a truck as Artemis swerves from a sudden shock of pain. Halfway to the hospital, Artemis decides to turn around since neither of them have health insurance nor the money to pay for a hospital visit.

Screeching to a stop on the circle, this time not on the curb, the kids re-enter the house of flowers, Artemis tripping over the hooker boots yet again. This time they are next to the door. After some cajoling, she convinces her mother to give her some pain pills, which she occasionally has in abundance, to deal with the pain. After another blunt Mercutio and Artemis retire to bed. In the morning they discover that Starla, real name Ivanka Munroe, age 42, has been shot and killed overnight.

Age Appropriate

I’ve realized, when faced with situations in which I feel uncomfortable or somehow threatened, I become hyper defensive. Whether I am in a gay bar, daunted by the prospect of meeting someone, or surrounded by a cluster of heterosexuals I perceive to be making comments out the sides of their faces, I simply shutdown. I cannot be talked to or dealt with, I just need to escape. The problem stems from my maturity, or lack thereof. Through various circumstances in my life, I was forced to grow up at a relatively early age. However, in my rapid maturation I may have missed out on a lot of the actual growing, resulting in the emotionally stunted individual whose words you are now reading. Though I am twenty-one years old, twenty-two in early November, I am around twenty-five mentally, but around fourteen emotionally. This begs the question: whom can I date?

Involved, albeit briefly, with a forty-six year old, I tested the waters at too extreme a depth. But should I date a nineteen or twenty year old, I don’t know if I could handle being the older one in the relationship, even though we might have the same level of experience. As a late bloomer, sexually and socially, would it be more beneficial for me to date someone who is going through similar experiences, or someone who has already experienced the doubts and the questions and could help me navigate the treacherous waters of finding one’s self?

I contemplate these issues on what will quickly become the one year anniversary since I’ve last had sex. I can think of nothing else these days but companionship. Yes, I am horny—to the point of debilitation. But casual sex has never been my forte, despite my best efforts to the contrary. I’ve always needed a someone and that has always been the one thing to elude me. So when? When will I find my someone? I know the answer lies in me. I need to make changes in myself, to become more open, more accepting and more willing to find love, but a change that profound cannot occur overnight. Must I languish in desperation and loneliness until I am ready? Is there some sort of love starter kit…or was that high school?

The issue of when is a tricky one, but the question of where might be the most pertinent. After living in New York City for four years, the adjustment back to Poughkeepsie has been hard. I meant to write a piece entitled ‘I Blank NY’ upon my move back, but until now I have not found the wherewithal to discuss it. Leaving the city was like leaving the Technicolor world of Oz for the black and white humdrum of Kansas. There was no place like home, but my home was in New York. I had never felt like Poughkeepsie was for me, even though I came of age there for thirteen years. I always felt that my hometown was just a primer for my real home, my real life in the big city, but dreams never turn out the way they are supposed to. But the point I’m coming to is that being gay in NYC is not even a second thought. There are gay bars in every neighborhood, even historically gay neighborhoods. Since I’ve been back in Ptown, I’ve been to one gay bar, the one of about one and a half in this town, and it left much to be desired. So it’ s almost like, if I couldn’t find anyone in the gay Mecca that is Manhattan, what chance do I have at Griff’s Bar?

This is life. This troubling process is life. Everyone has to go through it and learn things about themselves. It’s just that the more realizations I come to and the more I learn, the more questions there are to ask and the fewer answers there are available. Then again, maybe life isn’t about the answers, but the questions, why we need to ask them and if we are, indeed, asking the right ones. I trust in time that I will find someone foolhardy enough to love me, and I shall look back at this period of immense isolation with a knowing smirk. Yet to get there, I need to stop shutting down and face the insecurities I’ve accumulated over the years like an adult. And here I thought that just paying bills and being unhappy was all growing up was cracked up to be.

Tea for One

Alone, off to the side, he reads his book
My heart jumps and I’m in love with one solitary look
He notices my stare
With words do I dare
Profess my love to him in this tiny café?
My mouth opens but my tongue knows not what to say
Stealing glances on the run—
Sitting down to tea for one

Round the corner, down a little way
Next to the bodega’s a new café
With a cute boy in glasses and a raspberry beret
That I hope will fall in love with me one day
Round the corner, down a little way
Next to the bodega’s a new café
With a cute boy in glasses and a raspberry beret
That I hope will fall in love with me one day

The following day he is nowhere to be found
I kick myself for admiring without sound
But the next day he’s there
No longer do I feel despair
I muster a smile across my lips as if to say ‘hi’
He sees me and immediately returns to Catcher in the Rye
Dejected, I leave quickly
Pathetic and feeling sickly

Round the corner, down a little way
Next to the bodega’s a new café
With a cute boy in glasses and a raspberry beret
That I hope will fall in love with me one day
Round the corner, down a little way
Next to the bodega’s a new café
With a cute boy in glasses and a raspberry beret
That I hope will fall in love with me one day

After days in hiding I need a cup of tea
He’s sitting at his table with Dostoyevsky
Helpless I stare slightly
Noticing primarily
That he’s kind of short, awkward and gangly
And what’s with the beret? Is it Paris 1940?
But then he looks up and smiles in my direction
The picture of our future is now in perfect vision

Round the corner, down a little way
Next to the bodega’s a new café
With a cute boy in glasses and a raspberry beret
That I hope will fall in love with me one day
Round the corner, down a little way
Next to the bodega’s a new café
With a cute boy in glasses and a raspberry beret
That I hope will fall in love with me one day
We talk for a while, there is so much to say
For instance, the fact that he’s not even gay

Scribble

I want to feel love just to know it
So I can illustrate the words correctly
I’m a false poet—
Bereft of a universal knowledge
And I cannot write without this hallowed privilege
Or truly be alive without this passion of the ages
My pen might as well write inkless pages

Scribble furiously to discover
Pen and paper are my sole lovers
Cannot express it to another
Pen and paper are my sole lovers

Without experience my words are but hollow lies
Sound without fury, inarticulate sighs
To write is to breathe life and I am gasping for air
Because the miracle of love has yet to appear
How can I speak to the world with a held tongue?
It’s like knowing a song that’s never been sung

Scribble furiously to discover
Pen and paper are my sole lovers
Cannot express it to another
Pen and paper are my sole lovers

I want to know what it is like to drown in the moon
To love too strongly or love too soon
That hate is the only recourse
Then I can stretch my arms, wrap them about this force
And put in practice what poets have done for so long
Weaving their brief lives through eternal songs

Scribble furiously to discover
Pen and paper are my sole lovers
Cannot express it to another
Pen and paper are my sole lovers

A Simple Request

Can the quiet disperse to leave me to my longing?
A hunger eats away, from inside out
Consuming the blue of sky
The warmth of summer
And the song of life
A void withstanding
Where love should reside
But all there is, all that I have
Is the deathly quiet of solitude
And the fervent longing of hope--
Can the quiet disperse to leave me to my longing?

Sacrifices

In relapse, in repose
Ups and downs, yet that’s how it goes
Freedom don’t come cheap
To enjoy the awards you reap
One must take pause
Though thoughts force cause
Origin and destination
So we run on sans hesitation
How long can you keep runnin’
When you ain’t runnin’ for nothin’?

Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?
Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?

Through a window darkly
I am at peace hardly
With my life all humpty dumpty
Fallen apart in front of me
And I can’t seem to put it together again
Fractured, many pictures in one frame
Portraits different, even conflicting
My identity loosely forming
This is life in the making, makin’ a real mess
How or if it’ll fix up is anyone’s guess

Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?
Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?

Give up, get out, turn it loose
Before you wreck yourself and blow a fuse
My mind’s tellin’ me no
But my heart wants me to go
So I gotta gotta give it up
My knees are shakin’
But my feet are achin’
To walk, so I gotta gotta get out
My body wants to stay
But my spirit’s flown away
So I gotta gotta turn it loose
And for what troubles may come
I know I did what had to be done

Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?
Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?

Rush

Suddenly, I am submerged
As a rush of cold water runs over my head
Water fills my lungs
In a matter of minutes, no seconds, I’ll be dead

Suddenly, I am submerged
In this ocean of my youth
No land in sight
I am happy to see it fade, in truth

I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me

Suddenly, moments I had forgotten
They flash before my very eyes
All of my life, all it is worth
A few seconds, a mere drop in the well of time

Suddenly, these pains grow sharper
And each passing year I dread
As age come surging
Like a rush of cold water over my head

I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me

Suddenly, I walk into the depth
Weighed down by heavy rocks
Like that dark priestess a century before
Who could no longer bear the weight of her own thoughts

Suddenly, I am submerged
As a rush of cold water runs over my head
Water fills my lungs
In a matter of minutes, no seconds, I shall be dead

I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me

I Wish I Could, But I Know I Can’t

To whom it may concern
I can only hope you understand
Though I did indeed yearn
I could not go through with it as planned
My mind did backflips and turns
But I found the thought I could not stand

It’s just getting too much fpr me to bear
Though in the morning, I will still be here

Deep sigh, I am not relieved
I’m tired of toughing it out
Just not tired enough to concede
This world can crush you like an ant
Oh, I wish I could, but I know I can’t

Laying here
It’s too painful to contemplate
All alone with my despair
It is the end I dream of and anticipate
Though it must wait, I can’t explain why
It’s some stubborn part of me
That refuses to die
Before finding harmony
So to hold on I must try

It’s just getting too much for me to bear
Though in the morning I will still be here

Deep sigh, I am not relieved
I’m tired of toughing it out
Just not tired enough to concede
This world can crush you like an ant
Oh, I wish I could, but I know I can’t

Just for Me

I don’t know what I want, I just know this ain’t it
I’ve never been able to be complacent
Only lonely, confused and bewildered
Perpetually in search and need of a spirit kindered
When my world seems to reject me
Cuz friends can’t love me like I need be
I want to lay my head down deadly

Now, it’s not all just self-pity
Only half, the other’s an attempt to be witty
To hide all the pain I feel
I try to numb it anyway that ain’t real
To deny my own inability to try
It’s better to be fucked up and high
Cuz I’m sugar free, oh so lonely

If no one wants me, I’d rather be alone
So I tell myself--and I disconnect the phone
But I ain’t foolin' nobody, and nobody even cares
We’re all alone in the end, with our hopes and fears
Hoping for love, afraid it’s useless
My age is apparent, I’m utterly clueless
I want something and someone just for me

Perry Donovan Does "Rehab"

INT. - NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT

An empty stage with nothing but a stool, microphone and a spotlight.

PERRY DONOVAN, late 40s, in an ill-fitting tuxedo, clearly drunk, stumbles onto the stage to faint applause.

PERRY DONOVAN
Hey, hey, hi, hey, hi, sup. How are you? How are things? Great to be here...wherever here is.
(aside)
Maury where are we?
(agitated)
God, again? You’re fired as my manager.
(beat)
Yes, you can still be my lawyer but I’m going to need to see some sort of degree in the near future. (beat)
Yeah, the University of Phoenix Online is fine.

HECKLER (O.S.)
BOO!!

PERRY DONOVAN
Fuck off! I mean...uh, see what you did, you big booer. You threw me off.

HECKLER (O.S.)
I wish they’d throw you off the stage, lush!

PERRY DONOVAN
There’s one every show. Why don’t you just get up here and try to do your little schtick for us, huh?
(beat)
Sit down! Security!
(aside)
What do you mean there’s no sec--I’m a damn star! I have an Emmy!
(beat)
No, daytime. And local.
(to AUDIENCE)
THIS song is by a fantastic new singer about a subject that’s very, very dear and close to me. Tony!

Poorly played piano opening.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS, loungey)
They try to make me go to REHAB (thank you)
I said NO, NO, NO.
Yes I been black but when I come back, NO, NO, NO.
I ain’t got the time
and if my daddy think I’m fine. Just try to make me go to REHAB--

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(to AUDIENCE)
And I’ll rip ya balls right off, sailor! Ha! Funny story. Back in 1978, during my third but certainly not last stint at the sanitarium, who was my roommate but the inimitable Ms. Liza Mins. That’s Minnelli, if you don’t know. Multi-talent, multi-habit. Multi-chins. Tony!

Rimshot.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
Love you, Mins. So we were both there at the BEHEST of our quote-unquote loved ones. Betrayal is a second cousin to love, always remember that. Anyhoo, we decided to make the best of the situation by putting on a show, like those faggy let’s save the farm with a good ole barn dance movies her mom used to shit out in the 40s.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
I’d rather be at home with Ray.
I’s ain’t got seventeen years. Cause there ain’t NUTTIN, at all you can teach me
that I can’t learn from Sr. Hathway!
Didn’t get a lot in class,
but I know it don’t come in a SHOT GLASS!
BOURBON!
REHAB!
Ain’t goin’!

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
At this point we had a pretty evolved system of friends, colleagues and fags, I mean fans, who would sneak us in bottles of pre-mixed martinis in shampoo bottles. Liza and I.
(phlegmy chuckle)
I tell ya, I don’t know how many times I ended up with a head full of olives and a mouth full of lather. And Maury you keep your fat mouth shut. So we recruited our mini army to acquire costumes and scenery--I’m tellin’ ya, we’re professionals til the bitter, drug-induced end. And we secretly auditioned the other patients, mostly former TV stars who didn’t have anything to do but the occasional “Love Boat” or miniseries. God, Zsa Zsa was PISSED she didn’t make the final cut. I still have a four karat wound from where she sucker punched me. I’d show you, but I don’t want to get arrested. Again.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
The man said why you think you here?
I said, I have no idea. (I rarely do.)
I’m gonna, gonna lose ma baby,
so I always keep a bottle handy. (Here it is.)
He said I just think you’re depressed.
Kiss me, yeah, baby
and go rest.
REHAB!
Fuck it!

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
So there we were, in the middle of the set. Liza and I were to duet on a particularly poignant rendition of MISS OTIS REGRETS. I was belting, she was belting, I belted louder, she belted louder, I belted louder still and she belted me right in the money-maker. Damn near scratched my jugular out. Well, woman or not, I socked that pixie-haired trollop right in the kisser. No one - except pimps and Jews - slap Perry Donovan.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
I don’t ever wanna drink again.

Takes a swig out of a bottle.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
I just, I just need a FRIEND.
I ain’t gon’ spend no damn 10 weeks,
have everyone think I’m in depends.

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
Needless to say, Li Li and I had to be separated, sedated and placed in solitary confinement after a minor riot - cum fire - started. But after all these years, we’re still the closest of friends. Just don’t turn your back on her...or let her borrow money. You’ll never see it or her again.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
It’s not just ma pride!
Just til these damn teas have dried.
They try to make me go to REHAB,
I said NO, NO, NO.
Yes I been black but when I come back, NO, NO, NO.
I ain’t got the time
and if my daddy think I’m fine. Just try to make me go to REHAB--

Piano STOPS.

HECKLER (O.S.)
This show sucks!

PERRY DONOVAN
And so does our mother! Yeah, that’s right. I am so tired of your ingratitude. Here I am, pouring my heart out on this stage, and you pimply sons of Adam can’t throw some damn applause my way. I have a goddamn Emmy!

A large, burly man begins to DRAG him off the stage.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
Get your hands off me! I haven’t been manhandled so roughly since the “We Are the World” studio sessions. Diana Ross is a man! Diana Ross is a man!

FADE TO BLACK.

Something's Gotta Happen

I see you tho I don’t know your face
I’ve waited for you, in some other time and space
We were together and happy I know
Now I must find you, before I can let you go

Something’s gotta happen
Someone’s bound to come along
To rescue me from this prison
Can you feel the words of my song?

The thought of you fills the vacuum of my heart
If we were together, I’d never want us to be apart
But I don’t know where you are or even who
I just know someone’s gotta love me, someone is you

Something’s gotta happen
Someone’s bound to come along
To rescue me from this prison
Can you hear the words of my song?

Life’s not meant to be spent alone
Everyone deserves to love someone
And to be loved in return
Love is the lesson I need to learn
Something’s gotta happen
Someone’s bound to come along
To rescue me from this prison
Don’t let me keep singing this song
I’m waiting for you

The Blues Got Me Down

I’m broke in an unforgiving town
Got no hope for the future
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?
I’m drowning and I need savin’
The sky is falling
And I ain’t got no haven
I’m walkin’ ‘round with a perpetual frown
My bright days are end
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?

Hey, what can I do?
I‘m crawlin’ in my own skin
I want to be happy, to be alive!
But reality keeps sinkin’ in

I’m so lonely, the night’s all I found
Dark and cold, it remains
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?
I could starve from affection
Or lack thereof
All I want is a little affection
(Is that so much to ask?)
So I sit here waiting for the wheel to come ‘round
Life being a cipher
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?

Hey, what can I do?
I’m crawling in my own skin
I need to be happy, to feel alive!
But reality keeps sinkin’ in

I can only tell myself things could be worse
They can always be
And pray to stave off another curse
As I strain to keep my head high
My neck is breakin’
But I’ve got to maintain, lest I die
No point in dragging myself on the ground
No matter how tired
Lord knows the blues, though, yes they’ve got me down!

Asphyxiation

Headless, oiled torsos. Mushroom heads. White sticky jizz juice dotting mouths agape. Extra tight shots of rather loose holes staring at you, unblinking and unending. And wanton disregard for proper grammar. To traverse the world of casual gay sex is an exercise in gag control. In more ways than one. It is often easy to forget and best to neglect the fact that these are real people behind such appealing headlines as “DAD I want to be inside you,” “i wanna rip a hole in your ass,” “SNIFF MY HOT, HAIRY HOLE” and “Insatiable Piss Pig .” Gays the world over, all ages and races are united in the pursuit of one thing: satisfying their ravenous sexual appetites. But in this pursuit, romance has surely died a violent, erotic death. Sex is disposable and subsequently, people are disposable. I mourn its passing. As a reluctant romantic, I feel it necessary to at least know my sexual partners. I am not so foolish as to think of love as a prerequisite for sex. If I did, surely I’d still be a virgin—though after eight months of unsolicited celibacy, I feel I can humorlessly reclaim my V-card. And furthermore, love does not exist for gay men. It is only a façade we use to disguise how sad and pathetic our lives are. Not that gay men cannot experience love, far be it. Love is the truest of human emotion. It is that gay men cannot tend to love as it needs to be tended to. Love needs patience to grow, whereas gay men are men after all, thus lack that patience. I would want nothing more to be in love, but I refuse to hold my breath should I die from asphyxiation.

I have been using the word “faggot” with as much vigor and malice as possible recently. I love the way its venom burns my tongue. The act of saying it relieves my frustration at having all of my advances spurned or ignored. Whether online or in the real gay world, a fabrication if there ever was one, each time I am rejected I take it as a personal affront. One must understand that being on the fringes of a group already on the fringes of society makes one particularly sensitive. Are you turning me down because I’m black? Does being black make me somehow less worthy of your affections? Whenever considering approaching a guy, regardless of race, I must always stop and wonder if my own race will be a hindrance or an asset. This insecurity is only compounded by the proliferation of ads specifying racial identity among the qualifications for having access to the wonders of someone’s dick/ass/mouth/whatever have you. Faggots. Why should race even matter in this day and age? Make no mistake, though, it does. America has a rich tradition of intolerance and it is virtually impossible to deny one’s roots. Then there’s the blatant shallowness of hooking up itself. Survival of the fittest. Or the biggest. Or the deep throatiest. I’m as shallow as the next gay, but what is all this competition worth? What is this game worth? No matter how much sex you have—or in my case, don’t have—the same loneliness will remain like a tumor beneath your skin. Only growing and spreading, infecting every aspect of your life. Yes, I do think that gay life is extremely pathetic and hollow. I’d love to get laid soon, if only to ease the burden of this loneliness. It is crucial to feel wanted and attractive. Everyone deserves those sensations. Does everyone also deserve to be needed and loved? I hope so, for the life of me. Youth, inexperience and an insatiable lust for life can be the worst of fates when faced with no one with which to share them.

But Not for Me

The days they pass me like a brutal wind
Billowing and tossing, fatal as a sin
I am in this world, but not of it
Unwelcome and shunned by those I covet
No, they have love and companions
But not for me
They have warm, fuzzy kisses to share
But not for me
There is happiness somewhere to be found
Just not for me

I feel as if I’m being punished but I don’t know
What crime I have committed, what petty low
To suffer for that which I cannot control
To be lonely in a lonesome world, so bitter, so cold
There must be comfort in the warmth of love
But not for me
There must be a caring shoulder to lean on
But not for me
There must be more than all this unhappiness
Only not for me

All this mixed up frustration
I just can’t see
Where’s my salvation?
Is there none for me?
Where is my salvation?
Or is it not for me?
There is salvation for some
But not for me

Awaken

Chorus:
Awaken the artist within me
Spark the light
Awaken the love inside me
Make me all right
Shake my soul from its slumber
Yeah, that’s my desire
Shake my all like thunder
That’s it, light my fire

Verse 1:
The day, my mind’s busy
Running away from my pleading heart
But the night, my mind’s dizzy
Self-destruction has become my art
Rather than face my needs like a man
I embrace my fears with both hands

[Chorus]

Verse 2:
How could Galatea learn to love
When rendered directly from stone?
That she was loved
Thus she was human from flesh to bone
Should I find my own Pygmalion
Perhaps then I could feel human again

[Chorus]

Bridge:
Like a poem half-written
I am struggling to listen
To find some way to complete myself
Like a blunt just clipped
I’m smoldering, but unlit
Waiting for the lips of someone else

Verse 3:
3;30 in the morning, I awaken
I’m too hot to sleep or doze
My body for a while’s been achin’
And the pump inside froze
Made from an ice that ain’t soon breakin’
And a loneliness no one knows

[Chorus]

Do You Know Where You’re Going To?

Thursday, May 10, 2007. Two years prior, my education at NYU ended. Unofficially. Unceremoniously. It just happened and life went on. Had my life followed a different path, I would be pictured with my friends, capped and gowned, smiling in relief and in triumph. I would be a part of something. I would be a different person. Not better. Only different.

We are shaped by our experiences. The mistakes, the successes, the failures. All the good and all the bad. They are tremendously important in contributing to who we are as individuals and what we value as human beings. Over the past two years, I have been so happy, I could have cried. And I have been so sad, I wanted to. Sometimes, I had to. I was forced, really, to learn humility, to learn to trust and to love others for who they are, not just who I wanted them to be. I was forced, really, to learn patience and understanding, because without them, how could I expect anyone to be patient with or try to understand me? In short, I was forced, really, to become an adult. To accept responsibility for my actions, because there was no one there to clean up my messes. It was me. It was only me, so I had to be accountable. Yes, it was a most trying time and there were certain things not worth going into that I wish had not happened. Yet, regret is pointless. It leaves one stranded in the past when the future is waiting to be explored. The past is important only to learn from the mistakes and try not to repeat them again. To dwell there is an unpleasant fate.

As I look at those pictures in which I am absent, I am filled with a strange mix of emotions. Not envy. Not anger. Not sadness. But all three congealed into a sense of curious detachment. I am an outsider looking in. Though I have often felt this. Felt somehow different. Not better. Just different. I think that is why I wasn’t phased when I left school. At least, not as phased as I could have been. I even expected it. With no one to shoulder the costs of a private university, I realized that I might not be able to return for my junior year. Actually, I had planned to return. Eventually. But not really. In reality, I was excited. I was happy to be leaving school because it only seemed to be draining what little money I had in return for an education I was not interested in attaining. A part of me, a very large part, loves to thrive. Loves to prove that I can do it. Both to myself and to everyone else. Chalk it up to the foolishness of youth. Even with a short perspective of two years, I can look back and see that things could have gone far worse than they did. But with luck, tenacity and help from my friends, my life has gone fairly well. Always a struggle, but always fun. Had I stayed at NYU, I wouldn’t have had those experiences. I wouldn’t be me. I’d be different. Perhaps a little worse. But most assuredly, different.

Who knows what the future holds for any of us? I might go back to school, I might not. My friends, hopefully, will stay in New York, and yet again, they might not. Life leads us all on different paths and the most we can do is make the best of the journey. To enjoy it and to not regret what has happened or waste time wondering what might have happened. Just enjoy and appreciate what life has in store for you. And realize, who you are now, you are for a reason.

Just Try to Understand

What have I chosen for myself?
These thoughts are real!
A life so lonely it sickens
These feelings are real!
Every pebble pregnant with purpose
I can think nothing else!
Every life a beautiful waste
And I can feel nothing else!
Forever, In Search Of
Just know I am true
Forever lost, though aimless
Just try to understand

Curse

Cursed with a complexity I can only hope to understand
Such intimate words confound and impress themselves upon me
I want to feel nothing, anymore
To subtract the weight I’ve attached to everything
I wanted an anchor in the sea of my life
To drown me or to keep me from drowning myself
You know I could never swim
But now I’m in too deep to save myself

Loneliness, He Comes Upon Me

The stillness of the air
Is stung by the restlessness of my single bed
As Loneliness, he comes upon me in the night.
The only lover I’ve ever known
Who always comes home, should he ever leave
His touch, his breath, his aura consumes me
He knows me, and I him, yet we are strangers,
Drawn together for we both seek companionship
Be it miserable, reluctant or compulsive.
It is needed--this companionship, this validation
Thus when I feel the pressure of his body against mine,
When I feel his strong hands clutching at my throat,
Making my breath short and the vision of my life bleak--
When I feel his presence fill and silence my restless bed
Making the still air somehow electric--
I surrender myself completely
Simply because
We all need someone else to keep us warm and safe
From Night’s cold indifference.

Chapter 2

The image of the fleeing woman seemed emblazoned in her mind. She woke the following morning with the image of her painted on the inside of her eyelids. The same woman she had seen so often before, coming in at late hours, after working God knows how many hours to find a different friend tending her arrogant child. Sometimes he was alone, which was how Janice wished to see all children. Abandoned and alone, as she saw herself at so tender an age. In truth, her childhood had not been very difficult. She had had parents who loved her and, though they were by no means wealthy, she never went a day without food in her wide mouth, or clothes on her broad back, or a roof above her square head. Nevertheless, in her mind, her childhood was of the Dickensian variety. She saw little Janice, eyes wide as the English Channel, her naturally auburn hair somehow blonded by youth, and cheeks rosied by some anonymous winter in Florida, her birthplace and home til the age of eighteen. She saw herself hungry and on the verge of tears, homeless save for a cardboard box, a far cry from the one floor bungalow she shared with her parents til the day she decided to take to the wild streets of New York for college, and what she had hoped, the promise of booze and jazz. Instead she found artists with little credibility and even less talent and men too eager to offer their hearts at the expense of one night.

It was perhaps this blandness of youth that encouraged Janice to invent a suitable past with which to comfort herself. Had the years grown so long that she began to believe her lies?

The baby is never going to cry, she thought, suddenly, standing at her window, observing the apartment across the street. Why had she gone to sleep? she then wondered. Where are the police? Shouldn’t the area be buzzing with burly men in tight-fitting uniforms? Shouldn’t at least a fat man in a tight-fitting uniform be around, asking questions of the people in the young woman’s apartment. What if they ask her? What would she say? Honestly, the image was so fast, the light flickering on and off so quickly, that the shadowy figure chasing the young woman could have been anything, Like, what, officer? She played out the scenario in her head. Should he be young and virile, she would have no problem working her womanly wiles on him. A slight throw of the head to one side, letting her curly hair slide ever so gently into her still attractive, albeit slightly worn face? Biting her lip with all the blithe assurance of a skilled ingénue, of not necessarily the youth. What if he were fat and his potbelly had already burst one or two buttons off a uniform he had been wearing since, if, he was young and virile. No matter. She could still seduce him, rubbing his belly, kissing his ear, God hoping there was no hair or wax or a deadly combination of both lurking there for her tongue to find. She’d cozy up to the officer or detective and coo that she was not even awake at the time the crime happened, which for all sakes and purposes, could well be true. Maybe she wasn’t awake. Maybe it had all been a dream after all. That would explain the lack of the proper authorities.

Still, the image of the woman strayed with her. She sipped her morning coffee, trying to squint into the woman’s darkened apartment.

The baby is never going to cry again. Was that a bad thing? No, she banished such selfish thoughts out of her head. When the little creature was born, about over a year ago, she immediately disliked it. At night it would keep the entire neighborhood up with its inhuman wail. During the summer she had been forced to get an air conditioner as to keep the windows closed and drown out the unhappy child’s incessant screams. Never had she seen such an insolent creature, but the thought of it being gone forever from the world, it saddened her greatly. Again, she pushed thoughts out of her head but these were thoughts, maternal thoughts she had long hoped dormant.

She finished her coffee and disrobed in front of the window in preparation for her shower. She liked giving the old pervert with the binoculars a good show. Oh, there he was, still kicking and pounding, one hand on the binoculars and the other god knows where. He was only two apartments over from the young woman, surely he would have heard something. Would have done something, if only call the police or see what was was going on with all that racket. For surely, there must have been some racket. Or the furious older woman, all dressed up with no where to go, she must have heard something, though she might be well into deafness and senility by now. But what of the transvestite. The young woman’s apartment is between his and the old broad. They would done something, Janice tried to assure herself. She turned on the shower.

The hot water ran over her tight-for-forty-something body, all she could hear was the lonely echo of the faucet and it occurred to her that if she died, none of her neighbors would know or, for that matter, care. She had lived in that apartment for thirteen years and had barely spoken to anyone in that building. But with rising rent and declining space, neighbors came and went so it was best not to get too attached. And the new resident were usually spoiled, trust fund babies who trashed the apartment and went on to another one, all without a care in the world. So she kept to herself. Maybe the young woman was the same way. Maybe no one knows she’s dead. She toweled her hair and slipped into her bath robe.

Janice tried her best to think of what the day had in store before her, but the young woman’s image became clearer and clearer by the minute. Her face, never pretty from what she could see, and Janice could spot ugly from three hundred meters, was contorted in a mix of anguish and fear, right before the light switched off. Just as quickly as it had come on. And what of that poor, insolent child? What had the shadowy figure done to it? To the young woman? And what if he had seen Janice watching? No, impossible. The buildings, although close enough to see into a corresponding apartment, are too far apart to see a youngish woman of late thirty-something, eyes half-closed, witnessing a murder in a flash of light. At least she hoped. She continued to dress in silence.

After checking to make sure the curling iron, the stove, the coffee maker and her vibrator were off, Janice prepared to go out. She had decided to go on with the rest of her day and not worry about an incident she could barely recall had even occurred. Janice grabbed her keys and opened her door to a familiar crying. A baby sat outside of her door, throwing an unholy tantrum.

Chapter 1

The snow tapped lightly at the window. Perhaps it wanted in from the cold, Janice thought, the thread of sleep still tugging at her eyelids. She saw the frost building on the glass, heavier and heavier, fearing that the outside world might crash in on her and suddenly she grew incredibly thankful she didn’t have to be out there with the falling snow, hopelessly tapping to be in a warm room with a fireplace, under a thick blanket that, though it itched her skin, made her feel instantly secure beneath its wooly weight. The night slipped away into that dangerous but exciting limbo between consciousness and the sudden realization that a new day begins. Her mind went over what that day held for her once the warm embrace of the sun gently shook her from sleep. Surely, there were errands, appointments, something, anything to do, though she could not see them. Perhaps if she made a list, enumerating every task, but she could not bring herself to care. Rather, the rapidly building snow was the only thing of importance. But why? It had snowed before, had snowed harder, longer, hell, there has even been hail. Snow on steroids, as she had come to think of it. Once she was beamed in the head with a piece of hail the size of a marble. Look closely, and one could see the welt on her right shoulder where the hailstone pierced through the jacket of her Chanel pantsuit. So why was this snow such a surprise, a revelation? Why bother, she thought, trying to push the idea out of her head to finally put her thoughts at ease so that she might rest finally after a long day of sabotage and intrigue. After all, being the top Karry Fay distributor in all of upstate New York takes no small amount of bribery, coercing and obtrusive sexual favors. Yet her powerful position afforded her this chic little number in the heart of Midtown, amidst the crackling sound of life all around her. All that meant nothing, though, for that damned snow. The buildings beyond it seemed like they were in a different country all together. The large man with the laps of fat about his waist who wore women’s clothes after a grueling day at the office, to whom Janice had once sold a tube of Pucker Up Plum when she was just starting out, now lived in some remote area of Siberia, his window drawn closed. Janice wondered what he would be wearing tonight. Last night was a bit of a letdown, a man his size couldn’t pull off a wrap dress. He should have known that by now. She had hoped he would redeem himself with another vintage Balenciaga, but she had not seen him tonight. And next to him, the furious old woman with the extensive fur collection, whose apartment looked almost directly into hers. Where was she tonight, all dolled up with nowhere to go and no one to take her. Watching her made Janice feel the type of loneliness that seems familiar, if a bit of a ways down the line. She knew in 50 or 60 years she’d be that woman. And she too would be furious at having been left all alone to die in such a big, uncaring city. She must be, like, what, 90, Janice considered as she rolled her tired eyes over to the next apartment, the one with the tired single mother and the toddler who never seemed to grow or stop crying. But what’s that? He’s asleep, for once. And her window’s open, though the light is off in the kitchen. Then, like a flash of lightning, the kitchen is illuminated, for a short two or three seconds, and the young woman is running from one side of the room to the other. A large shadowy figure pursues her and the light goes out again. There is no scream, there is no baby crying, there is nothing at all in the heart of midtown. Not even a car horn, only the sound of the snow lightly tapping against the window. Thinking it was all just a dream, Janice’s eyes finally close and she enters limbo, unsure of what she saw, but ill at ease nonetheless.

Bubble

Of course
The bubble had to burst
And I had to return
To the earth, still
It was a beautiful respite;
Of course
The floor had to fall in
But at least I could learn
Just what it feels
To live and not merely exist

I Think I'm an Alcoholic

Productive
They walk by me
Do they see me?
Do they recognize me?
A fallen friend, classmate or colleague
Drinking
Alone
In the middle of the day
Again
What would they say?
Would I care to hear it?
Creative
I strive to recreate the world
As I see it
As I want it
Do they look at me strange?
Or with some sort of pleasure?
Morbid or otherwise
I finish my drink
The first
But certainly not last
Of the day
My world beginning to take shape
With each sip

Impotence

Perhaps what holds my pen
Steadfastly to the floor,
Beside its notebook, laid bare—
Its empty lines calling for their lover
To embrace and kiss them
With thoughts, questions, exclamations, declarations and prose—
Is perhaps not a lack of kisses
But a reason with which to deliver them
There is no love—there is no motivation
With idle time comes idle thoughts
Too many hours in the day
Or too many devoted to the wrong pursuits
The pen and notebook, the lovers
One is impotent, the other barren
Thus what was there before
All that passion, desire, drive
Has been lost to time
Too much, and yet not enough
There, sitting still, suspended for how long
His fire is extinguished

Chasm

He stands eight feet away from me
But in that eight feet
A chasm rises
Or sinks
Whatever chasms tend to do;
He seems so far away now
Beyond reach of my voice, or longing gaze
Yet, at the same time, I can feel the heat of
His eyes upon me, my heart starts to beat ever quicker
Should I crane my neck, would he be looking back?
If so, what would be the harm?
What would I say—
‘Say hi’
But then what?
‘Maybe comment on the weather?’
Come now, what else?
There is nothing else
I can only think how I want to tell him
How I love him and have been waiting for him
Though I’ve only now seen him…
People don’t say those things
No, not in real life
Not before at least saying ‘hi’
Dare I speak, but what if I should offend him?
‘No, not in real life…’
Best not risk it
As we are neighbors, despite this rising,
Or sinking chasm
But, then again
What if the heat I feel is not a tender gaze, but rather
A harsh stare
Or, even worse
It is
Nothing
At
All?
Should I turn my neck
And he would be paying me no mind at all…
I think it might be too devastating
And frustrating I should put so much
Weight on one or two words
Shouted across a rising,
Or sinking
Chasm
Instead, I turn my key, averting my eyes,
Rush into my apartment,
Throw myself on the bed
And listen
To hear him through the wall
Maybe thinking about me, or even listening
Just to hear me say
‘I wish we both weren’t a chasm away’

Like

I am bruised with longing
While cursed with a tongue
And a disposition
Prone towards coy discretion;
What I’m stumbling to say
What that has possessed me
To attempt to gush with such flowery abandon
So very far above my head
Is terribly simple:
I like you
Like like you, like you;
Pretensions be damned,
I wish to say as eloquently
And precisely as possible
That I completely, devotedly
To the point of obsessively
Like you like you;
It’s so simple but makes me feel
So complicated
I have beaten myself up over this
So that I am now
Bruised with longing
It hurts so I wish I could
Just like you
Instead

Ramble: Meaning

I know everyone thinks I’m full of shit when I start talking about my art and being an “artist”. Maybe they think I’m just some weird as shit motherfucker who refuses to accept reality. But they don’t understand. And all one can hope for is to be understood. It is the crowning achievement of an artist’s career when someone, anyone fully understands what went into creating a work of art and what you as the artist was trying to say. Yesterday I had a moment of clarity that took my breath away. It was as if I was looking directly at my life’s path set in front of me, all disjointed and broken, then suddenly, magically, it all lined up and made perfect sense. I know what I want to do and I have a vague notion of how to do it. I have to be clear. I want to translate life. We all feel emotions and go through experiences, but it is how we describe them that makes for great writing. It’s fine to be happy, but what kind of happiness is it? Where could it have come from? Was there a moment in childhood that reminds you of this happiness now and does it scare you, excite you, make you nervous to feel that unguarded again? Is the joy real or is it an attempt to cover the layers of sadness and withered hope you held onto for so long before burying it along with that old childhood self? What does it feel like in the moment and does it matter if it will last forever or for the next few seconds? Or if a character is feeling sad, is it that hopeless sadness that feels like it might never end lest you end it yourself, physically, dramatically, permanently? Does it overtake you so that even the slightest provocation leads to tears, and even the funniest joke can bring to life the laugh that is so familiar to your own ears? Are you someone else completely when you’re depressed, or is it just a natural state? I want to write to open people’s eyes to who I am, and by extension, who they are. I want to be able to touch someone’s heart and send that feeling of unknown energy, fuzzy and electric that seems to shift the way you see for a split second, making everything brighter and richer, to make the heart race with excitement. I want to articulate everything I feel to the best of my abilities. To write with passion and urgency, as if there was nothing else in the world at that moment but me and these words flowing from my heart and mind into my fingers darting quickly over the keyboard and onto a white piece of electronic paper. Here it can become something more than just what I’m feeling, some private suffering. Out in the world, on this white sheet, it becomes real, not just for me, but for whomever chooses to read it. and when they read it, maybe they’ll find some connection with those words and they will retreat into their heads to become something private for them. That’s as close to love as we can ever hope to come.

Liberation

I handed in my resignation last night before I left. I expected a wave of dissatisfaction, perhaps anger, definitely disappointment from those who I felt I was abandoning: the group of people I had grown to see as a family. They took me in my time of need and saw me through the hardest period of my life and here I was essentially turning my back on them. I expected a backlash. However, what I received was warmth and understanding. Instead of wondering what would come of the projects I was handling, what would happen to their work, what would happen with them, they worried about what would happen to me. How beautiful it is to come to the realization that people are human after all, not simply workers in an office, but human beings who can empathize and who can love. How beautiful it is to feel loved.

I handed in my resignation last night before I left because I had no other choice. Yes I would be giving up stability but stability isn’t happiness. One must make a decision how they will live their life. Can the pursuit and accumulation of money be the sole purpose of one’s existence? Is that what living is, going into a job you hate because you have bills, obligations, material things in need of upkeep? It’s a trap. It’s a lie. So I decided that I’d rather die physically than spiritually. I’d rather be broke and homeless if I can at least feel fulfilled. I don’t know what I’m living for, but I want to live for something. To hell with stability. To hell with the daily grind. I want to live romantically; to be in love with the life I lead, rather than dreading it. It sounds crazy, perhaps, but who am I or you or anyone to say what crazy is. There’s so much to see and feel and learn but will never know. What is crazy but an abstract idea of what normal people aren’t? I had no choice, you see. It was a matter of life and death.

I handed in my resignation last night before I left and it was the best decision I’ve made in a very long time. Things won’t improve immediately. If anything, they’ll probably get worse. But it’ll be my own doing. I have control now and I decide where I go, what I do and who I become. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s my own. This gorgeous mess of a life is my own and I’ve messed it up but I’ll clean it up. It might not look the way it did before, but it will feel the same. I need the mess. I need the chaos. It’s terrifying it’s exhilarating. It’s my very own. I handed in my resignation last night before I left…and that’s all there is. Ain’t it grand?

Withdrawal

I'm far too idealistic sometimes. I put so much hope and trust into one thing, only to be desparingly let down. True, I'm a cynic to the bone, disproportionatley bitter for my age, but oh, I love life. It's People I can do without. But life is extraordinary sometimes. Unfortunately, those sometimes come few and far between, leaving only the desperation and hopelessness. Yet for all the gloom hanging over us, there are those moments when you're in love with life. I just wish I could feel that way forever, to forever be in love.

I'm content. Right now, I am content. I've spent a lazy Sunday, watching movies from Netflix, high as a kite and twice as pretty, just trying to get out and over the night before. It was yet another disappointment, in one has become a running joke in my life. A party seems like such a simple thing. invite some friends over, drink, have fun and try not to say anything they might remember and hold against you in the future. Human relations are not simple, though. They cannot be because human emotions are too intense and consuming and only enhanced with the use of drugs and alcohol. But who can resist a room of their favorite people, loud music and conversations that at the time seem wonderfully meaningful?

The party was a bit of a failure, one that I took, like everything else, very personally. I like to think every emotion I feel has some greater resonance, some reason why. And I hate my job. It makes me want to die. Literally. It feels as if my life is not my own whenever I'm there, that my soul is no longer of use. I need to be in a creative atmosphere yet all I can do right now is work in an office. I am trapped by all these material things and I am utterly miserable. So why not throw a party?! A good olde housewarming party. My week was horrible, wrapped in depression and a growing sense of 'what the hell is it all for?' This party was to be my salvation, I thought. It wasn't. And I went to bed at 1 convinced I'd be unshakably withdrawn for the rest of the week.

And I might still. I like to run away from people and into myself when living becomes too much. I'm sure everyone does. Or maybe they do the opposite. Depends on who you are, I suppose. But as I lay on my bed this Sunday afternoon/evening, I don't care as I much as I thought I would. Yes, the party, and everything I had attached to it, delfated. That's life. A series of disappointments. I loathe the idea of going back to work tomorrow, though. I don't think I can handle it anymore. It's time to move on. The question is, will I be able to find the strength to move again. Have I gotten too comfortable, too lazy, too complacent to move? No, I cannot stay there. I cannot subject myself to such feelings daily. I must get out or I'll never get anywhere again.

But I'm ok. I watched my Netflix'd "The Hours" today. I had a very Mrs. Dalloway day yesterday. An ordinary day of errands for an inevitably frustrating party. It was wonderful. The movie, not the day. That something so tender, sensitive and revelatory can exist, gives me the reason in life I'm seeking. Art. To act, to write, to direct, to CREATE. I have to live in the hours of my life, no matter how hard they may seem. Or how pointless. After all, there is something waiting between them. Perhaps a great party. Or a great book. A great film. And the people I've been foolish/lucky enough to love.

All You Have to Do is Dreeeeaaam, Baby,We'll Be There... *And TWIRL*

So apparently I was the last gay in the world to see Dreamgirls, providing further evidence to have my 'mo card unceremoniously snatched from my immaculately manicured fingers. Ever since I heard about this movie, like around summer, I was a bit excited. And yes, that is an understatement. I was f-ing psyched. Especially when I started hearing the buzz. Standing O at Cannes! Oscar for Jennifer Hudson! Beyonce doesn't suck! What-what-what? Soon the anticipation became crippling. Living in NYC, I looked forward to seeing it before everyone else on Dec. 15th and then rubbing it in the rest of the gay nation's faggy face. Unfortunately, tickets were sold out until its wide release on Christmas Day. Thus I made it my mission to see the Dreams while in Poughkeepsie during the holiday. That, however didn't pan out, either on Christmas or the following weekend of New Years, as a bitch was too stoned and lazy to function. And I will not take your judgmental stares, either, mother fuckers. I'll tell you what, last person who looked at me like that got their left eye dug out with a plastic spork. Thus the new year dawned, miserably, by the way, and my manifest destiny's child was still out of my grasp. To make matters worse, I went to a friends' birthday party, steam packed with gays. Inevitably, the conversations turned towards Dreamgirls and I felt the cold Antarctic wind of the pariah, an outsider among outsiders. What kind of queen was I?! So, to comfort myself in the cold, Dream-less nights, I downloaded not only the regular soundtrack, but also the Deluxe Edition. 36 songs, y'all! Yet the shiny, bubbly 60s/70s Motown soul by way of Broadway with a quick detour in Vegas, only made me crave the accompanying visuals more. Finally, I saw it last weekend.

I liked it. Ok, really liked it. Didn't love it. It was really good. Not GREAT. As a movie, it's all right. The pacing's a bit off, and some of the characters and their relationships aren't developed that well. Actually most of the characters. You know who they are and what they're like, but not necessarily what drives them and why. That's really because there's very little in the way of dialogue in the movie. But it's a fucking musical. People's thoughts and feelings are expressed in elaborately staged numbers, much like how my thoughts and feelings are expressed on a daily basis. 5,6,7,8 I'm high! *And TWIRL!* The movie's lack of depth, though, is counterbalanced by the often thrilling performances and those damn, fabulous costumes. Eddie Murphy is surprisingly good. Lively, energetic and actually pretty sexy, while still human and tragic. Almost makes you forget that he made his last, like, 15 movies. Almost. Beyonce is actually rather capable as Deena Jones, except when given too much dramatic weight to carry on her dainty little shoulders. But Foxxy Cleopatra she is not. And her Diana Ross interpolation is awesome. Bitch remains a charismatic performer, if not a charismatic actress. And when she does that twirl during the "Dreamgirls" number, you realize that the girl probably killed Diana Ross and stole her essence because there's a new diva in town. Quick note: B apparently lost 20 lbs to play Deena Jones...I mean did she gain 40 lbs before losing it, or...just wondering. Gorgeous though. And Jenny Huds. Hi. Though her role didn't require that much acting, it did require a hell of a lot of emoting. You feel for Effie White, even when she's sassing the world with her big hips and even bigger voice. And what a voice. My face melted off during "And I'm Telling You (I'm Not Going)." How a relatively boring Jamie Foxx managed to walk out on that, is beyond me. Will it translate to an Oscar? I wouldn't be surprised, though the Academy might favor something less showy and with more acting. But any performance that can bring god in the room for 4:45 deserves attention. Oh, and how I do love when a star is born. In short, Dreamgirls, though not really worth all the hype, is still entertaining as balls. Big sequiny balls with some shimmery fringe and a beehive wig. It's full of magic so it's very easy to look past the weak-ish storyline and occasionally boring direction. I'm totally getting it when it comes out on DVD. And not from that little Asian woman in the subway, either.