Friday, November 17, 2017

Out Out Damn Bigot

If they knew I was gay they would mock and defame.  They would add in derision when they speak my name. They would turn away quickly and always despise.  They would glance at anything other than my faggity eyes.  They would hate me and worse they would make me cast out. They would forget our old friendships they lip would remain stout.

Except. They do know--almost all have seen my secret. I like men. That’s a fact and there’s been no throats slit.  They still smile when they see me.  They still look at my eye.  Some of them talk with me deeply about liking the guys.  They still play disc golf and Ultimate.  They still chat most all day.   They still turn on the ‘tendo and invite me to play. 

So I guess the dark voices that fertilize fear really shouldn’t have much of a place left in here.  The voice that should rule is the one that is kind. The meanest voice about the gay is the one in my mind. 

I’ve been called a faggot by no one but me.  I’ve been sent down to hell by the voice inside me.  I’ve heard the words I fear most no from friends or dear kin.  The words tipped with poison have come from within. 

The acceptance i need isn’t in life’s crowded hallway. It’s the bigot within I must struggle to slay. 

Friday, September 22, 2017

Corinthian Glass


I stand here in stark openness. Clothed yet naked. You have been given a grand key. The master lock is open. You know.

And here I stand. The first time since you found out my secret. What do your eyes search for? Are you looking for clues? Some evidence you should have seen previous. Do I look the same to you? Or am I courageous, or sinful, or contagious, or alien.

Am I still human to you.

Am I still family.

Please! What do your eyes see.

Do they still see me?

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Death of the Party

I see you.  I behold all of you.  Your little party.  Your feigned joyous vocal ejaculations upon seeing each new guest.  “Oh how have you been?”   “Oh my look how preggers you are!”

Partaking of food, of drink, I sit her, perched in the corner.   I hear you, I comprehend your motives.  You, broad shouldered rugby type, you want to go home with her.  Your smiles are bigger for her, your eyes, though distracted, re-calibrate constantly with her at the center.

You, oh how big and rich you are.  You telling about your job, and how everyone jumps at your command.   And you telling about your boat, your vacation, your family.

Oh now you’re all talking about your hot molded bodies, under the guise of fitness hints.  

What a scene.  I sit in the corner. And now I strike.   Each of you analyzed, each of you primed to fall.  With the a paring knife I slice through the tethers you’ve been so gently weaving throughout the night.   The girl you want?  I distract her with culture.  You fume.  She laughs.  I have no need of tethers.   I deflate your dirigible by talking about your companies scandals.   Oh sure I don’t mention your company, I just mention in passing something I heard in the news.   Now your blimp is limp.  The hot molded bodies.   I cannot destroy that, but I can talk about how you were.  Bring those memories back to everyone.

You come to me, “how have you been?”  I talk about my rashes and poor job performance.   Quietly you shuffle away.

Things are more quiet now.   Slowly I have been putting the party to sleep.   Slowly you leave.  I return to my perch, pick up a novel, and finally breath.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

1-2-3

The ones like the twos. The twos like the ones. The cleave to each other like silverware stacked in a drawer. 

They think I'm a one. Most do. But I'm a three. I walk past twos and ones all day. I like the ones. But they don't like me. They like the twos. Some twos like me but I don't like them. 

Then one day out of the ocean of ones I found another three. Then I realized we all had been hiding among the ones. The odds were never in my favor but just knowing that in the sandy beaches of ones a few threes hid, made it bare able. I can never tell if someone is a three or a one. But I can hope. 

So which number are you?

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Lost Retreat

There is a place with peaceful breeze; a clearing rounded by ancient trees. A place where streams run clear and deep.  A place where peaceful is my sleep.

There is a place set in my soul. A place where I don't often go.  Where gay and Mormon are well known friends.  A place where the bitterness is end.

I'd like to go to this forest retreat.  I'd like to see those old friends meet.  I'd hear them share their hidden fears.  I'd see them hug through joyful tears.  My soul has the map but I cannot see the path to get there through the tree. But I know a place does exist.  And it's a place I sorely miss.

If you find the way will you take me there?   So I may partake in the peaceful fair.  This battle makes my heart weary.  This battle makes it hard to see that someday I will find the path.  And no longer will I have to ask how a man can be both Mormon and gay.  For God will show me the gentle way.   The scars of battle may form the map....  how did I never think of that.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Response

While it is true I have affinity for glorious masculinity I don't think you can get rid of me without approaching divinity who will rebuke your bigotry and years of bitter enmity and when we see electricity no doubt you think it aims for me but cut short you despotic glee for the smoke shall issue forth from thee

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Letter to a Friend's Girlfriend

I send a request without hope of redress  that you may have some mercy.

You own the  heart of a man I care for.  we were just friends but I had settled for that tiny sliver of my yearning.

In the times of lower conscious he is so much more but I knew he wouldn't give it to me I was a magnet he is just a piece of iron. But I was fine with just friendship and then you came in and took it like  ten thousand women before you, you've taken my friend's attention.

You two are compatible; the magnetism goes both ways. I don't want to deny my friend a match.  I cannot and  our unspoken agreement was just for friendship after all.

But I would hope every now and then you could enjoy a night out with the girls and I could have my friend again. it's in your hands I know I can't win this fight so  I just beg  for Mercy.

 Even the dogs sometimes getting scraps from the table.