Friday, June 30, 2017
I heard them croon, “I belong”
when I was all alone.
A haunting melody of one song.
How could I have known?
I kept my wits about me
as a closet shut-in.
No one really knew me,
neither kith or kin.
So, by a simple phrase,
I can face new days,
in my new family.
For you see, “I belong”
is a mantra not a plea.
I too will sing one song,
as “I” becomes “We.”
(dedicated to the GMCSF)
Monday, April 17, 2017
Friday, March 17, 2017
Thin ties and thick friendships.
A shamrock lilting in the neon.
Jameson spilled on mahogany and Burberry.
Danny Boys in tenor voices and adorable brogues.
Closeted with Ireland's twinkiest
and IRA wannabees.
Natural Gingers, play against a field of green.
Those Leprechauns, who “come-out”
after copious green beers and Irish cheers,
secretly go-out to the East Side Bath House,
to sober-up and cavort.
March 18th, would be a day to contemplate
March 17th, and rejoice in the memory
May you have the same.
Happy Saint Patrick's Day.
Friday, February 3, 2017
He wasn’t lonely.
The room had a stand-alone mirror, catty-cornered where
two walls converged, like a metaphor for his two worlds
as he spoke to and into the mirror and addressed both.
The world outside this catty-cornered realm and here-and-now,
just him and his alter-ego, great listener, the Image.
A light in the room reflected onto his face and accentuated
his lines and features and furrows, like those photographs
of Abraham Lincoln, where a biography can be surmised
between forehead and chin.
He never asked that existential question:
“Who am I?”
That was for teen-agers.
No, it was small-talk, the talk of neighbors and acquaintances
and sometimes, even friends.
Although, he once cried, early-on, and the image cried along,
but gave no solace, and he came to understand its limitations
and insensitivity. Angry, at first, and later realizing that the
image had its own personality and character, its own wants
So, as in any relationship, that thrives, he compromised
and tried to understand the image and be content with
the fact that the image, through all its short-comings,
was always there for him.
And he rationalized this relationship:
How many people could say,
“I have someone, always.”
The Image always found his floppy Christmas cap
amusing, hated the Raglan-Tweedy smoking jacket,
loved those New York Giants P.J.’s.
He once practiced a speech to the image, and swore
he heard an echo, his own voice as if in a hollow
chamber and questioned, for the first time, his sanity,
but only for a moment.
He knew the image was unreal.
He knew the image was real.
The unreality gave him a certain freedom of expression.
Reality of the image gave him comfort and a sense of being.
You see, he stood in the center of the Universe.
Behind the image was infinity, possibly eternity,
Thursday, December 22, 2016
We live in the now
and dissect a second.
Where memories kowtow
when life’s chores beckon.
But, memories dismembered
come back reborn.
with each new morn.
to smile and reflect.
Those who are around
and those we neglect.
So, here I’m seeing
my Christmas tree aglow.
As memories flood my being
of all the yesterdays, I know.
Nary a slice in town
on the Manor’s strip,
olde Humpys is put-down,
I’ll have to jump ship.
Voyage to another venue
where LGBTQ is rare,
just to see a menu,
like Humpys to compare.
Now, my pepperoni is bereft
and my mozzarella dry.
I miss that slice so heft
that I would devour on the fly.
Don’t ask; cupcakes
my mouth slakes;
No More, I stutter.
My future is a blah
when Humpys went away,
I’ll probably get agida
at my next pizza soiree.
Ave atque vale.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
The Black Vultures descend
on this dead Pekin Duck
who quacked his last “Aflac”
several hours ago.
Violent and vociferous
they feast on this victual
with gusto, as hunger and
instinct animates their actions
of wings and talons and beaks,
carrying-on, with no table-manners
and with rooming-house -reach
onto this carrion.
Two dozen or so at this feast
as I stare in wonder of fellow
animals whose instinct is all
and hunger a shared trait.
Nothing is left.