2-14 Mr. Producer and I Say Goodnight

imagine a stage,
end of a play,
or the beginning,

there is a couch,
leather red or white,
or brown, but leather,
to the right, tiny shot glasses,
elegant crystal afterthoughts,
of whiskey, or bourban, or scotch,
to the left, only,

the cello plays.

I do not move,
from where the buttons,
have undone themselves,
in pink, gray, and black,
stretched out, as liquid oil paint,
drips from my forearms,
I am looking at the ceiling,
where there should be chandeliers,
diamonds, but there is only

his head, dark and resting,
in the denouement,
on my chest, his eyes,
lashes thick, are closed,
listening to my unpaintable heart,
harmonizing, he is layered,
clothes, gray, folded navy blue,
blankets to his thin form, which has found
mine,

the cello plays,
holds, one last long single note,
low into the light fading,

we do not move,
in this last moment,
in this first moment,
we do not move,
for you, we are

still.

2-13 Chasing Stars

in the lens,
so far away,
you were caught,
leash and a dog,
bridge,
water crashing, brave,
around you,
why are you so sad?

I lower the lens,
gray skies have brought
cold to wrap around
you, once, friend,
sunshine comes briefly,
but the butterfly,
will not rest,
to wait for you,
to smile,

I am happy in this moment,
you reply, to no one in particular,
on the bridge, beneath, the
water crashing brave,
the sunshine cold,
around you, why
are you so sad?


I don't press the subject,
you walk on.
We were as two, you and me,
one, you and me, were as two,
down the trail, I continue to
watch the old man grow up
in the lens, to young for his clothes,
to old for his words,
his body awkward in the mud
and ice, slip.

we don't see the world
the same today, I am not as old
as you, breathless in the almost sunshine
filled with life crashing around me,
wrapping the cold familiar sense of
nostalgia, beginning and ending,
with the lens, growing old,
in the distance, so small,
I see you, trip,

why
are you
so sad today?

I lower the lens.
butterflies chasing stars
in the sunshine,
crashing around me, breathless,
I see you.

2-12 Ravenous

blue as the midnight,
between the souls,
the stars of their eyes,
ear crowd around me,
pressing in their sinking shadows,
robes, hmming, with pale candles,
ooing, needy, claws gnarled, gripping my shoulder,
digging in, tongues tickling the razor edges
on my ears, pressing down firm, squeezing,
breathing, singing, they gather closer,
they want out, they want out,
they want to be heard, one finds my heart,
and twists, the meat, soft in his tears,
frustration building, mounting, wing beats,
loud, overwhelming, howling, one chorus,
after another, together, screaming in my ear,
let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT!

with a click,
 I add a high G note,
unsure, erasing it, then adding it again,
sitting back to look at the black dotted white screen,
brushing away the tickle in my mind,
go away I whisper, in fear,
but they don't listen,
hot upon my neck,
feeding monsters at my feet,
and the one, THE one, who spreads his just born,
wet wings large, veins in blue marble, driven with age,
an architect of the mind, cavernous, consuming,
lifting his sword, his bow, closing his eyes, he begins to play,
burning through the crowd, silver needle flashing,

I cannot ignore him. I cannot.
blisters on my hands. I listen.
clicking away.

2-11 Last Night At The Grand

when the band struck,

the seven chord,

we all were there, 

each of us ghosts,

settled in the chair,

on the last night of the Grand,

raising a glass, saluting the sinking ship, 

ice melting, is this vodka?

tilting a hat to drinks,

as a favor, lips to the mic,

strings almost broken, hands on the keys,

who were we singing too?

one by one, 

we gave our farewell soliloquy,

the unchained animal, 

the architect,

the master Splinter,

the kid released from band camp,

the deviant son of a preacher man,

the snowboarder with a heart of gold,

the newcomer, fresh, smiling unaware in his sweater,

and me, on the keys, howling down the wind,

as one by one, we gave our farewell,

strings almost broken, hands on the keys,

I ask again, raising a glass, listening to the walls,

who were we singing too?

this place must have been somebody once,

must have seen somebody once,

must have held somebody once,

in a grand, sweep of an evening,

I close my eyes and imagine, what the

chatter might have felt like, the jazz

might have tumbled into, the sound

becoming the roar of the crowd, the smoke,

swirling cloves and tabacoo from, their lips,

whiskey spilling diamonds on, the table,

lipstick writing I shouldn't love you but, I do,

left behind in glittered out, clutch purses,

smelling of a musky innocence, from shoe polish, 

silk, cotton, suede, sweat, and the music, the music,

must have been somebody once,

must have seen somebody once,

must have held somebody once,

in a grand, sweeping, crash of an evening,

I open my eyes,

ghosts in the chair,

we become their ghosts in the chair,

the walls say our goodbyes,

one last time I ask,

waiting for an answer,

who were we singing too?

the band strikes the eleven chord.

 

2-10 Rusted

outside it's,
slush babe,
but,
I'll be damned if I wear,
snow boots,
to the singing Monday night fashion show,
not so sexy,
in the slush babe,
good decision for bad girls?
hmm, I hear you,
but now I have to tiptoe,
this princess through,
the
(arm lift, what a handsome man,
thank you, kiss the cheek)
water logged,
platform of a stage,
toodling in the slush babe,
what's another soggy night,
but glitter on my kinky boots-
rusted.

2-9 Raphael

I am not sure what he is.

hush by the fire quiet,
except his wings,
feathers swirl in brown,
and black ink, quiet
by the fire,
there is form there,
I can feel it, when I rest,
my head upon his chest,
hush, but it is there and
not there, in the quiet,
he tells me
and not tells me,
to hush, in the shadow
of the fire, of his self, to hush,
in his form, this is
the second time, I have
been with him, by the fire,
hush in the sheets, the first,
he was me and not me,
I awoke, awake with silver stitches,
on my back, and a memory,
of him, love, him, love, and
have been looking for,
him, love, him, angels,
and demons, love, him, love,
but there he has been, hush,
by the fire quiet, shadow forming,
all this time, older now,
in his cradle of form,
disappearing, hush, faceless,
form, disappearing, how will
i know him when I wake again-

Raphael. I whisper.

2-8 Straight Heroes For Gay People

he liked pussy,
and bull riding,
though I like bull riding too,
and well, we all know,
where I won't sit on the subject,
of eating pussy,

(their words not mine).

in the first five minutes,
they reminded us,
those who watched,
that he was a manure streaked,
stained wrinkling, ugly, coke snorting,
paid roast leather lickin',
rotting from the outside in,
penis of a man-

straight. I almost turned it off.

This is who they choose to be our hero.
This is who they choose for us to look up to.
This is who we will praise by the end of the movie,
when the white inconsequential data quietly assumes
the center of the screen.

This is who we will give awards to for celebrating
his story, our story. This man. This anti-hero.

The man is angry because he doesn't want to die,
by the end of the film, I don't want him too either,
except we know he will, he yells, and flings shit at
the drug companies for treating disease as a business,
treating him as a business and yet,

who profited from the buyer's club?
who? We are collateral damage- to him.

there is an awkward Schindler moment,
when they give the man a free house,
I wanted to cry, I wanted him to cry.
but,

he doesn't,
like us he's afraid to die,
afraid to die, like us,
caught in a corner,

this is our hero you choose for us.
this man,
this.

Why?