New poem tonight: SQL

I’m going to Red Poets’ Open Mic tonight.
I’ll be reading my new poem, SQL. It’s a love poem, really. No, it’s not really about Structured Query Language, just like “Lemonade” isn’t about lemonade. 😛
Come by if you’d like to hear it. One of my writing buddies really liked the early draft…

That is all.

So busy…

…when I’m not writing new poetry I’m getting my heart broken so I can write new poetry, it seems. 😛 I wrote something nice today, a love poem involving SQL. I don’t know if I’ll have it ready by Friday, but I do think I’ll read a draft of it tomorrow at Red Poets, if only to get it out of my system, into the air.

I think my rant from last week will get posted Friday. Maybe.

That is all… for now.

Enough Space In The World (Lou Reed, Again)

Well, Lou, you’ve been gone a little while now;
maybe I’m worried everyone will forget.

I’ve stopped seeing Rick. He met me
in a bathhouse, fucked me for five
minutes then spent the next four hours
two rooms away shooting up meth; I just
wanted a little time to be the thing that
made him feel good, but I guess there wasn’t
enough space in the world.

Garrett won’t talk to me now—it’s just as well—
when I saw his latest hookup video on XTube, I
recognized the other guy, remembered he’s HIV+
and told Garrett, asked, “are you at least on PreP?”
I was just trying to look out for him, just trying
to be some kind of friend, but I guess there isn’t
enough space in the world.

Valentine’s night I told Kyle “or, you could
fuck off” after he tried to sext me once his wife
went to bed. I see now I was tricked into being
an asshole—Kyle got his own hair-shirted version
of the full boyfriend experience. Really, I just
wanted to hold him, but I guess there can’t be
enough space in the world.

These are the three beautiful losers
I even bothered to talk to because of you,
because of “Walk On The Wildside”
because of “Sweet Jane”
because of “Some Kind of Love.”
I don’t regret any of them; it was wrong
and it was worth it, just like you promised.

And, Lou, I think some of us still need you
To come back and sing up all that space.

Goddamnit, Matthew

…and you can’t shut the fuck up long enough
for me to clear my head enough
to find a way to tell you how beautiful
you are, so, for the record:

Your brown eyes are as clear and sharp as
the smell of blood in air; they glint hot,
like a distant salmon that taunts the eagle
overhead; they flicker like morning sunlight patches,
they burst open in dirt between the swaying trees.

As I press my cheek into your chest it reminds me of
hiding in couch-cushion forts, your skin is the old quilt in
the Colorado basement—soft, seemingly eternal, and
your breath is the winter heating vent in that living room
floor, lulling me to sleep.

I watch your hands, your fingers, the way they curl
around space, around a glass, around my wrist; I have
noticed every square inch of space you’ve filed
into time, tucked away with your fingertips.

Matthew, I prefer it when we’re quiet.
Matthew, I like when our foreheads rest against each other.
Matthew, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.

Sometimes your fingers fidget and curl around
empty space, like a nervous tick, around your
sadness.

…and just before you leave I know
we’ll argue about something stupid
and I will forget
to kiss you.
Goddamnit, Matthew.