I’m wanting to do something with the poetry I’ve written about struggles with sexuality and being a gay man in the world.
This is the first. This poem is emblematic for me of the difficulty meeting with men who don’t identify with various gay roles.
I used to have a 4×4 – not huge
just big enough to fit me.
It had a favorite place, on a granite hill by
the lake, where the lichen made everything hieroglyphic.
I took a date there once, and shirtless on the tail
gate we talked about tow-balls and suspension whilte he dug
in my pants and did not kiss me.
In the flush of our hands, he talked about
donuts in the mud and how cool it was to be straight
until he paused and said the way you say
“oh,that’s a nice bird there” that
he was about to –
and in seconds he was back in his pre-lowered cap,
having a beer, looking away from me and missing
the world, glorious around us.
I was looking at the distinctive green crush
Heineken bottles make when goobers have used them
for target practice, thinking :
so many men, that broken glass grinding
them up inside, unnecessarily broken.