Take each past, combine it with its present. —Jack Spicer
Arlene was licking the gloss that coated her lips
when Harold, to whom she’d never been properly introduced
made his way from her peripheral vision
and ever so slowly her way until, once directly in front of her, he
pivoted toward her and for a few seconds looked at her directly, and she stared
into the
wells of his brown eyes. Locked socket to socket, the
two of them now connecting in this awkward and sudden way, she found herself
immobile. Then he stuck out his tongue, pivoted back and walked out of sight until he vanished in the opposite periphery of her horizon from that which he had appeared.
my mother spent years in fertility treatment just so that me—
just so that i might inevitably arrive. and my father. but it was the 1960s. five whole years. i was an easy birth, as she recalls. the arrival of the twins (my brothers) and my sister nearly killed her, and these facts were oft repeated in the small house in which i spent most of my first seventeen years. when i began to earn enough to live comfortably—a too short era which i intensely miss—i would, once a year or two, get my mother an air
line ticket to visit me in san francisco. it
became a tradition that i sincerely miss. on what i believe was the first of those trips, as we were halfway up the last block of mason on a trek to the top of nob hill, within the shadows of grace cathedral, she burst into tears out of the blue, and confessed that it was her fault that i was gay. i laughed a bit at first, and listened to her tell of reading about a study of how an above average number of kids who came into the world after receiving one of the treatments she had gone through had turned out to be gay. through her tears she kept saying ‘it’s my fault. it’s my fault.’ all i could be was grateful for the treat ment that had potentially given her a gay son. and i told her so, repeatedly, said i was very happy and even proud of the person she’d brought into the world, and could not imagine being any other way. and it’s true. while nothing i said that afternoon seemed to comfort my mother on the subject, i kept telling her that if my being gay had anything to do with any of the medical fertility treatments then i owe her even more grati tude than ever. i kept saying various iterations of ‘if so, then thank you.’ that after all was said and done, and the tears were dry, she remained sad, as if she’d created a monster, as if being gay were a mortal sin, a malady; that she’d not be swayed, at least on that one day so many years ago, saddened me. but it does remain just as true that it does not matter at all to me why i fall for the type of humans that i do, i certainly would not want it any other way. and i often send out thoughts— as i do right this very moment—of gratitude to whatever tinctures and procedures my parents endured that landed me here.
long as Gene Rayburn was hosting (most especially if
he was having a particularly annoying day). And then,
let’s see, my best case scenario to round out the panel would be Richard Dawson (of course!), along with Charles Nelson Reilly (most absolutely!), Betty White,
Bob Barker or Jack Klugman, depending on the day,
and Nipsey Russell. And when it came down to my one-on-one, because of course I’d be a finalist, much as I’d love to go toe-to-toe with the likes of
of Charles Nelson or Betty White, I’d go, and without
even a moment’s hesitation, with the pro of all pros for the final question: Our Dear Mister “Kiss,” Sir Dick Dawson.
I’ll do my best to turn this one into the vaguest riddle – like something I’d not possibly say to a Sphinx, she being a she. So let’s make it Greek,
switch the sex to an Androsphinx. I imagine a pair or three, non-concretized, (so with actual Sphinx flesh!). Is it working to relay my love of something un-human that
I can’t live without? Perhaps. But I’ve learned to live without most anything over the past several years – at least in fell swoops. Sex. Texts. Dollars. Human engagement. A domicile. Walls. A bed. . . .
But one constant remains: the city wherein I resolved so many years ago to call, and so lovingly, home.
Why don’t I take those long walks walks around the lovely, multivarious neighborhoods in my lovely city like I used to do on such a regular basis;
locales I’d see so often? But now, for so many of them it’s been years, or as long as a decade, like the duration it’s been since I’ve taken that short hike
over Mount Tamalpais to the amphitheater, or driven down or up any stretch of High way One, felt the warm sand between my toes traipsing Grey Whale Cove half-
naked or crossing over the Golden Gate Bridge or the Bay Bridge. No more excuses!
Homosexuality is essentially being alone. Which is a fight against the capitalist bosses who do not want us to be alone. Alone we are dangerous. —Jack Spicer
While reading this sonnet, you’re re quired to wear an ass-colored bonnet. Because being gay is being happy alone. The fight against capitalism is just an
extra added bonus for z-friends. And that’s no snooze. Snoozers lose. So I’ve slept a lot, perhaps, being such a loss, but shut me up. You’ve heard this
all before. But only you. Only you. As I was saying, bun-colored biscuits, hearts with no tacks, no tackiness. Or maybe just come with me to the emergency room. How
tacky is tachycardia? It’s the middle of the night and I’ve been watching too many commercials.
All Paths Take Me To Just Beyond Where I Can See From Here And Then A Blockade Is Reached
Yes, I keep saying quartets when I mean quatrains. I’m going through my photo graphs, something I do in between bouts of being actually busy, putting in proper
dates, tagging names to faces, deleting dup licate files. I’ve been doing this for years but
in its current iteration now I’m up to March of 2015, and while I never used to give away dates
in here this easily, I’m concerned that, since it was soon after that year, let’s say, when all of my big troubles began, I’m now worried that going
through the remaining 11 years of photos might also
get a bit too depressing. Might be a repeat. But
so much time has passed, it’ll probably be more,
oh, I don’t know, I don’t like to think I’m that too
nostalgic, have gotten some criticism from people
that know me that maybe I should find a new hobby since, well, the past. And I had one. And it was pretty good up until, again, around the middle of 2015. Hell broke loose slowly after that, and in
evitably I wind up here, typing you this short means of an escape from what that same past has now, inevitably gotten stuck inside. So what? Well, I might just learn something about myself,
I think, a rebuke of the criticism, that suggestion clearly made by the few who know me and do actually care about my well-being. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the fact that almost
no one I’m in contact with these days, especially locally, knows me from before that year. Who I was pre-2015. And that year was pretty fun, on the whole. To pinpoint a moment where things
fell apart, still, would be toward the end of that year, or it could go back to the previous one. When
did the good times end? What, if anything would I
call good times since? What are the reasons that
those seem to be so significantly rarer these past few years? Anyone might say that it does not have to be this way. But my focus has been so significantly on bringing myself back to a
contentment, a happiness replete with pleasure, that existed before then. But did it? As those years and the one in which I exist grow further
apart, am I losing objectivity about such things?
As an artist, I’ve conversely always been more left- brained than I have been right-brained. And I can see the formula that I followed for years that seemed to work so wonderfully. But is that
just a fantasy, a mirage that my supposedly analytical brain is giving me. False memories or a false sense of whatever I was feeling and whatever stress I went through back then as
opposed to that which I go through these days? I stare at these pictures from back then, with its up-to-then imbalancce of pictures of me, often
just my face (a selfie), and wonder, but cannot
look inside each photograph’s face to be able
to more scientifically discern the differences that exist due to the passing of this growing percentage of my life’s duration. Perhaps it’s
time to shake up all of my routines, take up alter
native hobbies from selfie cataloging. But the photos
ease my mind so. Would that life were so easy as
up being down, down being up, etc. I want to relive
without living it again, just to include the edits that
come from having this life. But of course that is just
fantasy. How can I shorten those old long-term goals to fit within this reality? Is the key to feeling
like I have it all just a mind-trick? Do I need a new pair of glasses? What can I dredge up in order to make any kind of substantial breakfast? How do I get over this one last hump? I keep asking myself.
Whether or not these are the right questions to ask.
