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Withdrawn, his head bowed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?