Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Little Boy Lost

Little Boy Lost
I ain’t never been one to sell my ass, ‘cept when I gave
That man blow jobs so he’d buy me clothes, an’ drugs,
A place to live, take me to Café Figaro so’s I could eat,
Play cards all night, so’s not to have to pay that
Nasty piper and suck on the limp lollipop, that ain’t the
Same thing as sellin’ my ass for a bag or a bed, I ain’t’
Never done that, I’ve been a whore my whole life, taking,
Using, buying, selling my soul to get by, or I’d steal
From you—anything so’s you’ll love me, take care of this
Wretched tired ass, but that don’t work no more, cuz
I ain’t got no ass to sell ‘cept this tired fucked up old
Wrinkled thing, who wanna buy that for a crappy $10?
Not no one wanna buy some limp dick for a bad blow job
Just to get off, I don’t need your filthy money to live,
I got me my own, when it gone, I’m gone cuz I don’t be
Wanting to stay here all that much Longer with the poverty
Knockin’ at my door, with them sad ass droopy eyes,
Empty ass eyes, I don’t wanna be no old thing at 93
Wearing them diapers, not knowin’ if I shit or I just stink
Cuz I can’t shower, no that ya hear?
I ain’t gonna let that happen, ya hear, ya fuckers wanna
Live til ya be a crypt, walking coffin not know who ya are
Needin’ some youngie to feed you, crumbs dribbling down
Your lips, that It? That it? No I ain’t gonna sell me no ass to get
By, I know where the exit is, ya makes a state while ya here,
Ya leaves ‘em laughing, graceful exit out that door.
What next? Who cares, long as it ain’t this no more.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

On a Party

On a Party

On a party with words, old slang man, like on a tear,
On the run, down with it, on a party with no drugs,
Just flying high, getting’ from here to next without
No harm, without death, without blackness,
Just wantin’ to run free, say it all, all of it–
Say what gotta be said, my words speak loud!
I’d dance nekkid in the park showin’ off my fine ass,
I’d do that if it was my art, but it ain’t, so I’d run free
And wild, dress up like the woman I’m meant to be,
Sing, dance, strip off my gowns–you laugh?
I think, it all come out crazy, like crazy in my head when
It’s all sixes and sevens.
I’m done, breathe, pray with me it ain’t wasted energy.
I’ve be that clown, begged love on street corners, in
Dark barroom back rooms, drinkin’ cold beer out of bottles
Pretend I be some rugged he-man, I’d have come fuck
Me eyes all stare just for you to come, come fuck away
With me someplace enchanted, even for an hour,
But that’s not where this train is headed, oh hell no,
It ain’t going there no more!
I’ve been around the bars, parks crusin’ to save my
Life and feed my addiction. Man, do I know what that like!
Been there once too often, arrested cuz that insanity,
That need that ain’t never filled has no brain, it don’t think,
It just do, and it does–life gets filled with consequences,
Consequences ruin lives, so this queen don’t do that
No more, either.
Been around all the things gay men do, maybe
Shouldn’t a done, who is to judge? Me.
We be different, see, not made to be no dads,
Wrestle little boys on our knees, cept the ones
Old enough to play games with us, that’s not
This party, not be a mommy, carry these disturbed
Genes, not what this fag supposed to be.
I done it all, without shame lookin’ backwards, all’s I
See is regret. Sing it Edith, no, no regrets, non, rien de rien.
Non, je ne regrette rien.
I want to regret til the poison runs outta my mouth,
Drips outta my ass, going backwards, I’m runnin’ to
The light, or death, done my regret, said sorry,
That didn’t work, said nothin’ at all, no more, done,
Done with that, movin’ on this party til I wrecks
The hours and this dance be done.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer


No one ever said, from Moses to Madonna, that’s
It’s gonna be easy, that’s a free ride on the El, that
Ya wake up and it’s all perfect, ya don’t have to
Sell your ass under the street light to get your fix,
Ya don’t have to wander the streets day and night,
Sleep under a bridge or in a cardboard hotel
On the nickel in downtown LA where they all go to
Die and the nuns come with food and the priests don’t
Dwell there, because there’s no hope there.
No one ever said from time before there was time until
The time it takes to put these words down that it
Was gonna be easy, cuz it’s never easy and the dream
Is a lie and the lie is that some folks got it easy!
No one gots it easy; in the end the easy is just a fancy
Coffin or a cardboard box in the crematorium.
It all ends the same, walking the thousand days
It’s never the same game, trudging along, cuz
We all came here for love and a healthy drink of
Life and some get high on it, some get drunk, the
Rest march to their own drum, ceaselessly, endlessly
To their graves.
Counting months and counting years and counting
Missing what’s in the center, life whizzed by like
A quick piss in the dark, it ain’t easy bro,
It never gonna be easy cuz god said so,
At least that’s what the good book says.
Live and die by the fruits of your labor, labor it just gets
Expensive, even the Whore selling his ass gets tired,
His veins collapse and they find him dead in the gutter.
Is that it? The divine grace they talk about?
It ain’t easy bro, cuz it ain’t never gonna be, that
The plan, through the struggle and through the pain
Past the dark corners that end in blind alleys
There’s a spark of light, for some, many, not all
Many–they traipse sightless and godless ending
Up where?
Still 6 feet under. It ain’t easy, it don’t need to be easy,
it just needs to be.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Words Break Your Back

Words Break Your Back
Words ain’t gonna break yer back, but sting and ache,
Shooting some poison darts out there, see who gets
Hit, thrown recklessly, with some black magic spells
Chanted driving men mad.
Word shot up in a rig, shot into your veins,
Heedless thoughts carelessly spoken drugs.
Words do not break, as old loves do, they don’t die,
Shooting poisons arrows fuels an addiction.
Words do break, shatter like cheap glass; smash
Shards and fragments into your eyes, blinked words inflame.
Shoot up words, the imagination soars with wondrous
Or horrific deeds.
Words bounce around the brain, they sing and dance
And scream like banshees on a tear. With each breath
Words longing for death,
Or words singing praises when you ain’t getting’ high.
Words ain’t gonna break your spirit, lest you let them.
Let them in yelling, screaming, clamor in your sleep,
Fuck up your dreams.
Wake up and clamor from coffee, stop the assault.
Asleep words carry on a bad play with you the lead
And all the words assume, assault, man they shout!
Shout, while you’re lovin’ and they shout after your dead,
Could it be any other way?
Words confound, confuse and mystify, strung
Together with the soft music of the spheres, they
Soothe, a panacea for all that ails. Words can bless
Chanted softly over a gravesite.
Words spat in anger or fear or doubt to you, worst
Yet to that vulnerable self inside, it matters.
Matter greatly, or matters not at all.
Do let the words nail ya to that cross.
Let go the sticks and stones, send out no more poison
Spears with sharp thrust of your arms, see where
They rightly take their place on the scrapheap,
Words can kill, words can heal.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

School Days

School Days
School days, school daze, little boy days, can’t
Never guess how the story would unfolds, you
Being some gray-haired out coot now, sitting with
All your gray-haired cohorts, not believing that
Sweet child grew up and became you.
What hurt then had no words, could never predict
A life where unfilled emptiness could never be filled,
Pain and insanity of youth, unimagined come to you and
Seeks oblivion in addiction, escaping reality, flees
From the story of life unfolding.
Once across childhood’s threshold, into the realm
Adult, never growing up, holding on to toys and
Playthings best left behind, seasoned and vetted,
Not realizing how much trash gets absorbed fills up the mind
That mystified unfilled void, when drugs and their lot take away
All that lay between youth and recovery, if that’s where
The road finally leads.
Many die, but this is my story, not theirs. Many
Spend their days locked in a prison of their own making
Deep within some hidden world where no one can
Enter and hurt is gone in dull oblivion
Others live in recovery.
You don’t want to talk about this, so neither do I but
We are and we gotta because, its time it came hurtling
Out of its own sick closet. Every hour another dies
And every hour I question god’s intent. Did It make this
Or are we the broken ones? Some get fixed, some fix
And stay broken.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Childhood Days, Gone

Childhood Days, Gone
Put aside your toys, get out of the friggin sandbox.
Put aside childhood games, come into the dawning
Maturity, Bring with you, in your heart, and safely stored
Fondest memory, the laughter of childhood,
Hopscotch and jumping rope all life’s simple pleasures,
Birthday parties with cake and ice cream and gifts tied
Up in red ribbon bows, a valentine chocolate cake
And ballerina plastic candleholders,
All safe from the harsh light of older
Years, where not time and memory can harm.
Shed that fortiva lagrima, a gentle cry for lost youth,
Peter Pan and Wendy, in timeless adventure, now
Always boon companions.
Grow up! Do your duty, but do not let childhood
Dreams die.
Funny days past when boys in short pants ached for long ones,
Little girls in pigtails pulled by boys, sat at wood
Lift top desks with inkwells.
Teachers drone A and B and how many times 9 will
Equal anything, nothing you’ll care about at 90!
We get a beatdown, from morning light til exhausted
Sleep, thinking that childhood was only a time in
Space, but no!
It remains always a gift of happy yore, if only in
Hindsight, when all that screams and drags at the
Heart heavy with reality, when all that ceases,
Close your eyes and think to childhood’s happy
Screams of delight in play.
Clouded with remembered taunting, that little sissy boy couldn’t
Throw or catch a ball.
Childhood dreams haunt and taunt, the hurt lingers.
A little boy or girl, I didn’t know then nor now, I played jacks
And dressed my sisters dolls, I harken back to those memories,
But is best to live in now, always carrying along that sweet child who
Became me in the end.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Nessum Dorma

Nessum dorma

Night brings its own blessed shadows, cloaking
The evening sky, blotting out the day’s sorrows
And promise of morning’s adventures. Night
Sinks into the grove, youth, sorely flit,
No longer my light, nor daily bliss,
My heart beats anxious,
Hope itself soars heavenward
Hoffnung schwingt sich himmelwärts.

Death awaits, none will rest, nessum dorma,
None will rest til love’s name revealed.
None shall sleep, my sweet, nor rest easy,
Nor close their eyes in drowsy stupor, none
Shall rest, until death takes your fair love
Murderously into hell’s gaping wound.

My sorrow night disguises, as time warps by,
Speeding through the heavens, with only moon’s
Pale ghost face laughing down.
Cats howl at her, severed-head moon,
Coyotes cry into the pitying night, scream,
He cried, scream into the abyss, scream and tear the heart from
The dying beast, sacrifice the living virgin,
Tear his heart from his living chest
Scream, and sorrow beckons.

Senescence bids, youth flits and is gone, in his
Wake left a hole in the universe, a void
That water will fill, smoothing the lake after
Cast stone brought ripples widening out.
Youth came to be worshipped, the priests bade
Your pleasure, but blood was not enough,
Naught can fill that vanity.
You must leave, as you have left, leave not
A trace on this cold, cold ground.
Mußt du einmal von mir gehn,
If you must leave me one day,
Believe, there is an afterlife
Glaub, es gibt ein auferstehn

High in the remotest mountain peaks monks isolate
Into meditative trance, snow melts to rivers below.
There the gods find solace, and below the people
Drink chill melted waters, running their veins as cold, cold blood.

Below, sacred valleys in burning deserts
Sacred tribal rights stained with blood,
Berdache cant in singsong manner,
Enchanted rites, offer their naked flesh to Spirit.
There we will go, buried in the sands of time,
Separately, painfully aware of how alone each
Soul is upon this rigid path. The gods seek
Vengeance for their protection, there is
Nothing to protect us from ourselves, wretched
Creatures, seeking their godlikeness.

Look into the deep dark face of night, the
Testa mozza grinning down on severed heads
Skewered on the gateposts outside the palace.
As none can answer the icy riddles, instead gave their
Lives in vain attempts at love.
Naught can induce Love the ice prince, secured
In his frigid tomb, His heart dead, as dead his suitors be.

Go now, silly child, with impudence run to inky blue night
Your tomb awaits, run, run faster for fear chases your
Heels and dogs your every step, curses your shallow beauty
And none escapes Death’s wrath. Beautiful Youth wanes
And Senescence beckons, between religion and fear
Go out and paint the stars.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Geras and Hebe

Geras and Hebe

Youth flits across the silver screen, ageless timeless
Beauties defying Time and all that he has wrought.
Youth’s frozen features stare icily back, decades
Beyond the passing of those icons.

Youth, defiant of Geras, thinking arrogance a virtue.
Defies the ancient Gēras who glories all a man acquires.
Insouciant Hebe, defiant of Time, unyielding, unbending,
Rebellious of that patriarch of living things. Youth his folly,
Child of derision squanders precious moments.

Youth but a stranger, regaled in rags or finest silks,
Confusion reigns, hopes flag, Time withers.
Youth and Beauty worshipped by the masses, adored
Black and white images flicker across the movie screen,
Til age, unrepentant sinner, tears down the masque,
Replaced anew by yet another youth.

Age comes sometimes with wisdom’s grace, shouting
Promises of peace to the elderly guided by
Geras’ loving hand where senescence strove
A lifetime to prepare; the cruelest joke of all,
There is no solace in old age. Be it fraught with pain
And sharp memories of youthful vigor; looked upon with
Saddened eye to see another wasteful life. Youth’s vanity
Accursed, not know this is yet to come.

Between what lies buried in the flurry of survival and
The foggy swirling mass of memories long past, lies
The unanswerable: what becomes of me now
(For that fate is sealed) as Youth and I gaze now at
Wrinkled hands, sallow flesh, drooping ass, rheumy
Eyes, and weakened joints and cry, what is this curse,
And where did wasted Time go?

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Sonnets to Death

I Would Die Tomorrow

I would die tomorrow, were that I could, go
And be gone and done with this, save that
I am not ready to die.
I long for death as one longs for sweet love,
Respite from pain, I crave sweet reward in
Heaven resting with angels.

I would die tomorrow gladly, and be supped
Of this mortal coil twined around my heart.
I’ve begged for death, as one longs for
Silence in the graveyard sleeping with the
Death, as one longs for dearer music and
Cries for God’s mercy.

I would die tomorrow, knowingly, with full
Blessing for that time augured here with pain.
Grant respite from bitterness, from life tossed
About it ocean’s shore’s, its labors and passions,
Its misery and defiant woes, all gone save love.
I would so gladly go.

Oh that I might die this night, or some other shortly,
Peacefully in slumber, wrapped in the soft sweet
Kiss of death, leaving naught behind but what was
Mine, of little value all. Sell those weary gimmicks,
Buy a headstone for my grave.

Oh yes! That in slumber nightly, God on high
Perchance rescue me from nightmares, that life call’s
Call me to what lies beyond, ancestors or simply sleep
As death.
I’ll not return, none ever have, to say what lies beyond.

Death Came Calling

 He called me sweet by my name,
He called me softly in his loving
Hushed voice and bid I follow him,
Bid me go.

Bid me traverse this highway from
Stodgy earth to that place where death
The devil in burning hell? Or is that merely
Bubbe mises told to scare the shit out of
Children and keep them quiet?

In slumber he crept upon my bed, leaned
In folded me into his soft and loving cape,

Bore me upward, asked naught but
Slumber well.
I will remain dead, above me the toils of the day
Linger on.

I dreamt that death was lovely, a fair maiden
Come to dance the long night away, a fair
Young man come to make love and burn out
Cares and woes of life’s relentless battles.
Death came sweetly, make love to me as death
So often promised.

Now sing me a lullaby oh sweet and gentle
Death, then call me unto thee and with plaint
Sweet notes on a lute play.
Carry me away and bring me home, home
To God or hell whichever be thy choice.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Boys Who I Have Loved

Boys Who I Have Loved


It has been a few moments since I’ve thought of you,
Lovely as you were, childish and girlish in manner.
Must I admit you touched my heart? Touched it deeply,
I allowed that, now it doesn’t matter.

Were I less human, knowing the dangers inherent
Of letting a young man in to steal my treasures,
Foolish I may be. Then you brought the ceiling
Down upon my head, and said, you no longer trusted me.

I felt as a knife feels, plunging into a heart, my brow
Cold as ice, I felt my blood no longer flowed. You plunged
That knife into my heart, chilled as death’s touch, sent it
Into that quivering organ, sent it sputtering into the void.

I will heal, as broken hearts do heal.  I own my own
Foolishness, loving someone so young and
Unavailable as you. Foolishness can recur, this old
Fool’s mistakes wish to not need be repeated.
Knowing as I do, I will blunder again with someone new.


You are new to this story, new to my heart. I do not
Know you, nor were this story leads: is it once upon
A time, as most fairytales begin? Or is it some proffered
Kinship that can be shared, one so young and one so old.

Your sorrow despairs me, and knowing what I do, I am
Powerless to repair your youthful woes. Know you
This, I’ve been a prisoner, locked within my addicted
Mind, locked within my room where love could not reach me.

I will traverse this wondrous time we spend, until one
Of us departs, from age or death, or as happens
With maddened frequency, some severed link in the
Chain, as said before, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine.

Before that happens, this I pray, that we will share
Some secret story no one else has ever told, though
I must admit, there are no new stories, only twists upon the old!


This insane path we traverse together, you and I,
A pair of fauves, caged wild beasts, restless on the prow.
Separately or together, we instill a subtle drama
Depending on the week’s portending insanity.

I find you beautiful in repose, have wished and
Wished ere long to be the love shining in your eyes.
Now that is laughable, no matter how I dream, you are
Unattainable, as I have witnessed, so is sharing in your love.

I no longer cry over you, as I did those many Months,
Sobbing like a wanton child, a fool in the eyes of most.
But we do not get a choice, in the Matter of feelings,
They come uninvited to those who open their hearts and let love in.

Oh yes, I admire your poise and charm, your Handsome
Looks plague my mirror when what I see reflected back
Does not compare. But then, Paul, my love from compare
Brings Naught by despair!


that I might find my grace in thee

Oh yes! There have been many, names forgotten
In the course of time’s fleeting moments. Memories fade,
But I recall some loved from afar only in my recollection’s
Recall. Some I wished only to gaze upon and relish in that
Vision. Some things are not meant to be for my own protection.

For boys are boys and that is whom they choose
To love; and older men are just that, older men.
The two are compatible over dinner and a movie,
But where it cannot go is anywhere near the bedroom.

Boys seek out their own level, I am here to admire,
To love, to look or to befriend, until that becomes
Too brooding a passion. Haunted, I usually find solace in
Dark places, rebuked and scorned for my efforts.
Boys love boys and I ask then: who loves older men?