[NOTE: A new edit of this poem can be found here.]

I said I didn’t understand
so God told me again—
the change happens instantly.
But it felt so much longer,
like forever, I begged.
Of course it did to you, my boy,
he chuckled, sneered,
of course it did to you…

1.
I am at the beach again
despite the doctor’s warnings
to stay out of sun
because of my condition.
I was here near this water
—this salty world-womb—
while Adrian slept through his cancer
surgery, and I was here
after we had that big fight.

Before that, and before him,
I came to this beach when I was
still young, if being young is the inability
to comprehend the end of a Summer,
the inability to doubt that a throw of the dice
will always win an invite to a party,
a weed connect, or an easy lay…

And here time is water and water time
as it carves and traces its ridges in
beach rock like the lines around my eyes;
it clumps and dents the smooth sand
like the wrinkles that mottle the back of my hand…

2.
I have seen the seaside tribes approach, recede:
young military men, college co-eds, young
college men, middle aged barflies
munching tacos from that hole-in-the-wall
just two blocks down from the seawall;
even the old woman who walks her
two pugs each morning at seven
remains somehow mysterious
against the horizon of ocean…

So I drifted down the pier
until the gulls in the air
and the bite of salt on my tongue
muted the humming waves beneath my feet.
I saw a gull with just one leg
and wondered what desperate adventure
had claimed his wholeness; yet
the image I caught on my cellphone
has no pity, just pride—
as if he knows he can still stand in the wind,
still dive into the same ocean, intrepid,
as if a throw of the dice could never
cost him the rest of his body.

3.
But I myself grow more timid
over just the high sun at noon
again because of my condition;
it could be any condition, I guess
it doesn’t matter, as often
being old is just being able to remember
a Summer where I couldn’t imagine being
too sick to do a simple thing.

The doctor told me that my body
is attacking itself; I should be very ill,
according to my blood-work, but apparently
I am lucky, only wounded just-barely;
so anyway it couldn’t hurt
to lose a little weight,
to go the the gym sometimes, and above all
to stay out of the sunlight—UV—
as that somehow roils
the demon in my blood.

And after the fit of nervous laughter
in the clinic parking lot,
after I realize the algebra of my illness
equates to two or three toxic little pills,
poisons that choke off my blood’s royal guard
and soothe the screams beneath my skin,
after all that I feel
a bit of pity, but mostly pride—
because I know I can still dive
deep into the waves sliding beneath me,
because I can still feel
dice, hard and warm, in my hand…

So I fell asleep with Sgt. Pepper playing
and it drifted through every song until
it reached its heart attack crescendo:
the ending that strains, mounts, swells
against itself, it lurches,
slouches upward, rises and rises
upon its rising until it finally—
resolves.

That note and its moment
remind me of your name
unspoken, on the edge of my lips,
here in this haze of half-waking.
And the beginning of your name begins
the path of pure yellow light
skipping across autumn-brown bushes,
the rising green-smelling Spring grass,
or the thorny range of Winter branches…

Fields of time slow like a rolling wave
across the brown-blue spread of ocean
and I am the waves that crest in the air,
there’s no moon, and I am pulled
by you and you alone, with your force;
And then you pulse like a radio transmission
that sputters out into space…

My body, my breath feels warmer than before
as I have taken in your airless heat
like a creek rock in the Summer sun.
And you are a glowing lens to the
force of desire, the crescendo:
your lips on my neck travel
faster than my thoughts,
faster than my apprehension—
superluminal.

Note: This is a new edit of the poem found here…

So I fell asleep with the stereo on
and it played through every song until
it reached that heart attack crescendo:
the ending that strains, mounts, swells
against itself, it lurches,
slouches upward, rises and rises
upon its rising until it finally—
resolves.

That note and its moment
remind me of your name
unspoken, on the edge of my lips,
here in this haze of half-waking.
And the beginning of your name begins
the field of pure yellow light
blazing across autumn-straw grasses,
the field of green-smelling Spring grass,
or the thorny range of Winter branches…

Fields of time slow like a rolling wave
or fields of azure spread like an ocean
and I am the waves that crest in the air,
there’s no moon, and I am pulled
by you and you alone, with your force,
that pulse like a radio
transmission that sputters
out into space…

My body burns at a different warmth now
as I have taken in your airless heat
like a creek rock in the Summer sun;
and you are a glowing lens to the
force of desire, the crescendo:
your lips on my neck travel
faster than my thoughts,
faster than my apprehension—
superluminal.

Sidewalk, trees
street afternoon;
vast
vast
fiery center
sunlight
and
shadow
humming

See? Anyone can be a poetic hipster…

I had a friend who had
a 1956 Bel Air—frame chunky and smooth,
and I still feel from its soft headlamps
a hypnotic daze that suggests
every mile, every driveway
it saw since it began
twenty years before I was born…

Didn’t you tell me once you wanted
an El Camino: half truck, half car;
your world again swollen with indecision.
But I was always happy just to sit
and listen to you decide—
that story of yourself you wove for me
out of the cloth of American rust,
the specter of a glory before us both,
as you felt stranded, I guess,
on the island of twenty one…

And look, I know, I know
how hard it is to be someone
to find the foothold on thoughts
that you can actually call home
that grew up beside you and
saw the same television
roamed the same playgrounds,
thoughts that burn like the little candles
that you found in your mother’s cupboard that
lasted through the rainy November afternoon…

Soot.
Soot.
Candle or car exhaust, it cakes
my hands, burns my eyes—
our days and days chatting online, and
what I’ve left to show for it
is a mouthful of ash
and a muddy old junkyard
with your name on the sign…

Today you look handsome in your El Camino,
but remember no matter which history you purchase,
we have no choice down which roads time will lead us.
Though, whatever our destiny, I am happy
to tell myself the story of you:
your soft eyes beaming,
your flat chest, chunky and smooth…

Please note: this poem is a new edit of the poem from this post.

press the gun against my temple
and fuck me

—blown—

if you cremate me I won’t burn
my skin turns to alabaster stone
red with heat

—glowing—

I should have listened to my first mind
when I first pulled you from the water
as I reeled in my tendon line

—veins—

I drove to the jacaranda pharmacy
I took all the pills you gave me
I’m swimming on the edge of light

—dizzy—

press the gun against my temple
and miss me

—forever—

I’m sure I’m neither the first nor the last
to stand unsure before an ATM—card in hand—
as I percolate through an algebra of
desire over pain, anticipation over regret.

Maybe you’ll let me, my accounts of
experience increased as my stock of youth depletes,
gift to you a certain approach to life—
a plea of purpose to my muse, you,
my gentle prism of desire fringed with pain.

Have a child, or many, or none—it’s not important;
your beauty is rare, but I’ve seen a hundred
young men just like you; so there’s something
more to you than what is passed
from father to child.

I see in you the signs of a soul from
the same spirit-city where I first collected up my bones—
there are so few of us, our tribe
scattered apart, fled to the edges of space:
boat docks, alleyways, 1970s apartment complexes
with sparkling foam on the ceilings.

But you’re too unsure to take out that card
you keep in the band of your underwear,
the one coded in the currency of home—
the guitar chords you strummed on a whim,
and all the songs of yourself unsung
for want of a voice confident, if faltering.

Fling your soul’s seed into the air—pollen—
hammer out the anthem of our hidden city
or just the maps of your inner contours;
something beyond DNA should survive you,
a receipt of being here, something that testifies
to the beauty of your silent moments, moments
like the words of this poem unread…

I had a friend who had
a 1956 Bel Air—frame chunky and smooth,
and I still feel from its soft headlamps
a hypnotic daze that suggests
every mile, every driveway
it saw since it began
twenty years before I was born…

Didn’t you tell me once you wanted
an El Camino: half truck, half car;
your world again swollen with indecision.
But I was always happy just to sit
and listen to you decide—
that story of yourself you wove for me
out of the cloth of American rust,
the specter of a glory before us both,
as you felt stranded, I guess,
on the island of your youth…

And look, I know, I know
how hard it is to be someone
to find the foothold on thoughts
that you can actually call home
that grew up beside you and
saw the same television
roamed the same playgrounds,
thoughts that burn like the little candles
that you found in your mother’s cupboard that
lasted through the rainy November afternoon…

Soot. Soot.
Candle or muffler I rub
the residue of your slow-motion explosion
into my eyes, it burns, and finally
I can cry for all your wasted afternoons,
every instant spent wishing yourself
out of your blood-swollen head…

You look handsome in your El Camino,
but remember there aren’t points with death
just for charm or a sultry smirk—
however you embellish yours, each of our
stories are told on the lips of time
only once—but whatever
our posterity, I am happy
to tell myself the story of you:
your soft eyes beaming,
your flat chest, chunky and smooth…

My room orders despite the mess, it confines
these walls these walls
I’ve had the song on repeat all day
I think the neighbors are sick of you
(I know my best friend was until—)

I’ve read so many poems
celebrating photographs and records
But you know what? It’s okay, though,
a cellphone snapshot and your favorite mp3
off Limewire
fit you perfectly: digital phantoms,
a script of pulses like a heartbeat
that drums out from my fissured chest

And I don’t even have that receipt
from when we went to lunch
I’ve kept you in the breast pocket
of that coat that’s too heavy to wear
and it’s okay, though,
I’ll mix vodka into sherbert and
wash it down with Sprite:

a more adult incarnation
of a picnic elixir; Summertime, and I remember
being twenty, and you might as well have been Dan
from back when I was the one too young to understand

You suggested a road trip to Los Angeles
a heavy dose of freeway spaces and
we could find our own rhythm
along the sun-bleached guard rails
the heavy green signs
that sag along the side

You’ve been stuck in reverse so long
I guess you’re used to driving like that
it’s okay, though,
and then you squeezed the trigger
and hit your mark,
and me already bleeding,
red drips from my hands and all I do is
sigh instead of scream

But only because I’m so numb
and I wish you were here to kiss
my sunburned back, red from
being out all day in California sun…

I think I’ll finally pick up my room
and take a road trip in that coat
too thick for any but your mountain regions
I’ll leave at midnight with a CD
that plays just one track and sometime

before dawn

I’ll find you.