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Death of a small village

This sleepy desert town grew
sleepy Indian valley settled in 1890s
resting in a valley of mountains
each with its own array of colors: browns
IMG_1242steely grays, tiny peaked pines pierce its crest
winter’s snowy mantle soars 8000 feet above
The mountain pass sluices gushing torrential winds
tearing desert cities asunder.
settled by Southern Pacific Railroad drawing tourists to
hot mineral springs, clean air, new vistas to conquer
railroad’s gone, not a trace left
hot as hell in summer and
mountain-wrapped sunshine winters
Charlie Farrell’s, Ernest Borgnine’s
secret hideaway for Hollywood’s royalty
cavorted in glamour’s seclusion
enigmatic memories of the Racquet Club
demolished sadly to the ground
Mecca 1950s reawakening boom draws young families
aspiring young business wannabe successes.
from somnolent quiet to malignant traffic lights
burgeoning as unwanted gifts
schools and money colonize
the discovery of paradise draws
dreaded snowbird, traffic insighting fury 
sacred home of the Cahuilla Indians
land divided into every other square mile
Witch of Tahquitz canyon their home.
sacred burial ground jumbled with architectural eyesores
precious desert expanses littered with human detritus
blossoming trash gardens filling once virginal soil, the gods cry
movie stars fled, died, leaving
homes available for parties at a premium.
moviestar images replaced by streets bearing their names
Charlie Farrell, north and south
Dinah Shore, east and west
Bob Hope spews across the moneyed-rich behind locked gates
no mention of Judy
Garbo’s home rubbled
all those 50’s settlers long since dead
ah! the delirium of progress
   
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Uncategorized

ennui

Yesterday seemed to be a day of unrequited love, sadness over loves lost or never been. I love someone, but it isn’t carnal love. Just a sweet young man who needs a friend. We bonded when we met. I see him as a younger brother, a friend, another lost soul just like me.

I think we (I) get confused when I use the word love…it immediately responses to sexual love, being in love, instead of a deep (the deepest) human emotion one can feel toward another. I find myself constantly trying to justify this feeling, even the use of the word is perverse and makes me a tad nauseous. But we’re gay and gay people equate love with fucking and that’s not what I’m feeling.

My friend is sad and lost right now, he’s 21; I’m sad and lost right now and I’m 70. All I can see is humans sharing an emotion. In all truth I cried a lot last night waiting for sleep. I can’t fix him, I can’t fix me. We’re trapped, for the moment, in circumstance. I had a friend, he looked at me and said, “I love you.” Pretty words if he’d meant it. I asked “what do you mean?” He said, “why must we define our love?” No wonder I’m confused. I said to him, “I’m in love with you,” and he nearly exploded. That would have made it real, I’d have gotten too, too close. I was his satellite, orbiting around his narcissism.

I see the confusion. Maybe everyone is right and I’m just fucked up in the head, chasing dreams. Doesn’t everyone?

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gay

Harlequin

like a small reed-thin sound loudening
each day, I approach to your ear
give and take evocative…listening
harlequineach small sound glittering bells
utterances deep within throbbing sighs, talking
lingering at the edge of your words
romancing a small elegiac flame to brightness.
I see roses no longer weeds
chortling at blousy dandelion explosions
in the sharp wind
crabgrass and thorning vine
replace gently a sweeter smile, perhaps yours.
the blossoms of your eyes, shaded by whiplashes
startle me oft dewy tears washing sadness gone
we two closer to one than one
two not lovers houseguests sharing time
sunning splashing poolside gambols
friends whose hearts nearby calling
whatdahell with you today?
or, oh! such sorrow can I kiss that tear?
coke and cigarettes gossipy days
your sighs great billowing clouds
the oh! and ah! gifts offered friends
cheering the wherewithal of silliness
binding wounds with incandescent light
as friends can
when bad days bite
when sad days wound
wearily palpitating heart deflates at dawn
memories of mom’s tender kisses soothed
acting silly together disbands the melancholy
today I think of Maine strewn madly across this land
thousand miles of words distancing friends
wanting to see you giggle and act the fool
planning to see you, giggling and acting the fools
wishing we were closer, glad that we’re this close

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Sunday’s child

SUNDAY’S child is always a mystery.
Sunday’s kid hides his history.
Sunday’s kid brings dual diagnosis.
sundaySunday’s boy needs medication journey is complicated.
Sunday’s child wants recovery more than all the other children of the week.
Sunday’s kid is damaged.
Sunday’s child tries hard wants the secret eludes him.
Sunday’s child is full of hope.
Sunday’s son is the one whose hand I’m always ready to reach for.
Sunday’s child’s hand usually slips through mine.
this doesn’t surprise me, I share the same concern.

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Saturday’s child

SATURDAY’S child comes late with baggage trepidation.
Saturday’s boy possesses an understanding that’s he’s done.
Saturday’s son says this is the last time at the last house on the last block.
saturday Saturday’s kid’s surrender is not a matter of yes or no but of when where how.
Saturday’s child is older ruined ready to surrender begs help me.
Saturday’s child overzealous does a good hiding his chameleon behavior.
Saturday’s child will be invited into the fold he will make friends break hearts.
Saturday’s son is loveable offers love in return.
Saturday’s child often fails relapses dies.
Saturday’s kid hurts too deep he can’t tell us.
Saturday’s child is the one I want to save to make my own.
this doesn’t surprise me, I share the same concern.

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Rash Love…

eyes flash
teeth gnash
words crash
thoughts smash
feelings mash
love’s rash
hearts beat
heartbeat
eyes lilt
blood spilt
words titl
thoughts built
feelings guilt
love’s wilt
hearts beat

eyes melt
teeth smelt
words spelt
thoughts felt
feelings dealt
lovers
hearts beat

eyes meet
teeth greet
words bleat
thoughts cheat
feelings sweet
love’s treat
hearts beat

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Friday’s child

FRIDAY’S child is lost in the woods.
Friday’s kid—we don’t know his name–is here and gone.
Friday’s boys is asleep while he’s awake.  fridayFriday’s child is absent but present.
Friday’s son is of service follows direction hooks up with the right boyfriend.
Friday’s child finds the right sponsor treads the ubiquitous service commitment path.
Friday’s kid keeps his secrets leaves a huge hole when he leaves.
Friday’s child leaves an empty sad heart when he vanishes.
Friday’s child may return.
Friday’s son is the strong one.
Friday’s child can be shattered willingness replaces selfishness.
Friday’s boy is the one whose funerals we sadly attend remarking he was too young.
that doesn’t surprise me, I share the same concern.

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