Conversion

Broken glass. Shards shaming Josephs coat.

Angels spotlights. Tingling. The rainbowed sun;

Colors splashing against white washed faces,

Bathing kaleidoscopic fragments onto you, into me.

Shimmered shards stitched to neighbor, stitched

To Love, mere shadows in the light of likeness.

And a tarnished, gold saucer, bent from laugher,

Where Nick and I ran round pews, Jerichos walls,

Up and down, back, forth; gold saucer sunk in

Baptismal font, sunk in what it means to be

Born, into what it means to be boy, into what

It means to be live. But what I remember most

Is Pastor Michael dipping hands into the coolness

Of water, the ascension of my everlasting

Salvation. Three fingers licking the bottom, three

Fingers flicking123 seven drops,

Dousing me into what it means to be an image,

Broken glass in a sea of light.

Bee Bites
You were tying your shoe. The left one.
Converse sneakers with red stars, flint
To heel against black asphalt. Matches.
And a bony knee plying open the break
In your pant

with each stride.

And I was there. Standing. Apart from

You. In a field where weeds sprung up
As white flowers with hearts of gold,
Yellow pollen that
fluttered along
the bumble
bees backs

Until one stung you.

Brave Nick. Strong Nick. The Nick that never cried.

You told me it was only pollen in your eye.

Bee bites and spring days, the times we went

Out to play. You squeezed my hand and told me it
Would all be okay.

To Nick

I rubbed beginnings of
A world of you and me
In the sheets of night.

Traced a brow line to

Cupids bow, teased the
Chills of a young man.

Felt hair sway like wheat

In autumns wind; fingers
To scalp, mind to heart.

Undercover lovers,
Welcomed like known
Strangers, a New Moon
To the darkness.

Freedom Paints Itself

Freedom paints itself in blushed reds, blistered lips,

Purple hickies sucked with whirling color; in the

Yellow-dashes of the road, markers of our future,
Strokes of accelerator in the cure of coating.

Freedom paints itself in the arcing of your wrist,

The joints of your thumb bending and swaying,
Thumb rubbing, thumb to hand, thumb to hand,
Fingerpainting. Blending us together as one.

Freedom paints itself in crowsfoot marking your

Smile, tiny lines in the laquer of love, as the piece
We paint ages with fine feathering, joining you
And me, the creating of our future.

Bed-side Table Bibles

You fell asleep,

thick arm hanging

on my shoulder.

Your loud snoring breaking

the 3am into consciousness.

I lay [tucked by heat]

Staring at gold letters
Cut by King James,
The taut hide of God.

Gold ink catching light;

Finger bent blinds
Pressed upward from

Peeks for your fathers car,

Seeing if business trips have
A second coming.

(bars bent)
Light dripping in,
Reflections from the
Streets wet, black skin

Watching the Nick that

wonder

About the Father who left.

became my home, and I

Faucet
clenching, unclenching,

water flowing

white basin, with fever

water

skins cells

chopped.

churned.

knocks against
dirt
mixed.

muddled without prejudice. all of you baptized

the sink

by a faucet,

the holy

river

and

grey necked, knobb handed,

Sanctifying

as water

into

cleanses
the pipes

in the experience,
me of you washing away

lead

tooceanwhereall
ofmeiswelcomed
broughttreceived
takenhomeapipe
dreamHeavensfailingsthingsevena
pipeandfaucetcando.

It was not Sex

(After Thom Gunns The Hug)

I could feel your big head throb with excitement,

learning the bones of my bones,

oxytocin and vasopressin,

our chemical love.

I could feel your dimples deepen as you stole third.

White Angels knickers stained
as you slid into home.

I could feel your lie cross its fingers as you bluffed a straight,
when I knew you held onto a
pair of kings.

I could feel your morning breathe whisper I love you,

as your leg hair promised
to never let me go.

Revelation
Bark laid perpendicular, wood by wood, planked flooring,
Murmured voices clinging like dust on purple pews, moth
Bit and butted. Head bent, knee numbed, with the umberedEyed planks watching, trees white pupils piercing, I knelt to
The alter, and mouthed:

"'Holy, holy, holy

is the Lord God Almighty.

I unclasped my purple hands1 to stroke the sky, and

Felt the empty embrace of the congregations voice, singing,
Scraping the flooring of heaven; voices rising in a dance,
Twisting, twirling, praising, the lamb that is slain,

Who was and is

Mouthing, words like rafters, lifting up with it the truth of a God,

The am i am, the lord of lords, the one who was, who is, the one

who failed to come.

1 On October 31, 1969, The peaceful protest against the "homophobic editorial
policies" of the Examiner turned tumultuous as ink was dumped on them from the
third story window. The protestors used the ink to write pro-gay slogans throughout
downtown San Francisco. (Straight News: Gays, Lesbians, and the News ).

Seven Years
I prayed to God
GI-Joe figure strapped to chest. Wet pillow slips.
Fist bumps to eyes, reminder that little boys dont
Play with dolls. His wife, Barbie, crucified.
I prayed to God
Abomination. Leviticus 20:13. Congregational amens
Humming through Sunday air. A doxological, a choice,
A failure of the spirit. A Prayer for the dead.
I prayed to God
Confession box walls broken. Psychiatrist referrals. Black.
Cold Leather. Suppression of a childs longing. Sticking to
Thigh. Indiagnosisable failure.
I prayed to God
Hormones raging. Door clicked locked. Tangible loneliness.
Hand, wild and electric. Finding you in the dark. The touch
Of loneliness as your images taunts me in my mind.
I prayed to God
Cat calls, whistles through locker rooms. Rumors like flu,
Racing through crowded hallways. Game day showers.
Dodgeballs judgment day. Corporal punishment.
I prayed to God

I prayed to God

And seven years of Him is what I got.