THE WAY
WE LIVE NOW:
TL AND I SPLASH ABOUT IN THE TUB,
RESOLVING DIFFERENCES
“What is said of a man is nothing. The point is, who says it.” —Oscar Wilde
(1) Pillows
Lie back to manufacture
images in green and white
of what you never were,
that fledgling hawk
who always had a mate.
Getting into it, “as is,”
where sense need never
be resolved,
this ordering is real, but rare,
and stands without. To look,
as in a mirror, thinking
no one’s looking back.
Flamboyance takes up time.
Though you invited him,
you’d wish TL were home again,
his home, where
he’d do nothing
but discuss
his walls
alone.
Replicate his silence,
wait until the night,
forgetting he’s alone.
Or
Pick up his
words with diligence.
It’s claustrophobic in his home.
No boy (this time)
for him to buy.
I closet him in photos
and his words
alone.
Claustrophobic.
All his doors
are shut.
Who’d pay enough
to stay with him?
*
(2) Cruelty (first true story): When Freddie was little, he wanted an aviary, so his father built him a cage in the forest. Freddie threw feed onto the floor, and the birds flew in. He shut the door and tied it with a string.
*
(3) A Dangerous Drive
The tale dissolved,
the way fine movies do, as
you, on icy roads, were driven
anywhere I chose to go.
The friend, no more a friend
than you, had worried us
as if he were a dog,
until we let him go.
And drove away.
Disaster makes a woeful world,
though if I stopped the car,
and walked it off,
what would I then have left
with which to hurt you next?
(4) Idealism: Twin princely men work for all they’ve got. The mendicant tries to find their secret. The cook creates new recipes to please. The architect resurrects a style for them. Neoclassic filigrees adorn their ceilings. Their dining room has columns. The twins sit beside each other in shared erotic bliss. They understand they’re really one, but still they’re able to be innocent, dreaming in mothlight.
*
(5) Try Ignoring Him
Since his ease took no account
of mine, why should I lavish
language on him now?
Who’s the redeemer,
who’s the redeemed?
We dream we stand
on ancient stones. Lesions
in the water swirl around
us everywhere. The water
laps the rocks.
The marks
of trilobites dissolve.
Slowly, the metric
and the waves
undermine the shore.
Here we hear
no sound as all things
come apart.
*
(6) Realism: The athlete, too young by western standards for what he’d want, draws his towel tightly near his crotch, but from the side, his thighs still show, and that’s enough for now. He dilates his eyes as if to say he’s just as gracious as men ever were. These ancient acts are not a substitution but a way to calm him for a time, as if his well lit rooms suffice.
*
(7) Club Sandwich
One day, the media made sense.
And now, I take my TL in his home,
and say
Dear Wunderbar:
You didn’t choose to stay
And that is just as well.
If we had slept it off,
I couldn’t say this now,
celebrating all you’ve done
to keep the two of us apart.
Your friendship, face, and locks
of silver hair redeem me from
the boy I might have been.
Youth’s forever, and boys
this winter day are tan in Maine!
True. I saw it on the streets
though there were snowflakes in the air.
Beach time in late December’s
not for me: what’s mine is mine.
That day the media made sense.
*
(8) Memory
Recalling diners, bars, and clubs
we once thought fine,
now limited by (sigh) no you,
I picture you in leather
standing on an opal or a pearl.
I'd like to have that figure
in a photograph.
Why not?
The French boys won’t be back.
I need my TL
now.
*
(9) Cruelty (second true story): A friend said his mother’s ashes were scattered around the rosebush he planted beside the door to his house. “The house was sold,” he said, “and they redid the lawn. I don’t know what happened to the rosebush.”
*
(10) Full House
The heat’s not on.
I’m cold.
I nestle under covers,
smelling Chlorox that
I use to purify the sheets.
It’s very late and
time to sleep but TL
wants another turn or two.
I groan.
Whatever we’ve been doing’s
not enough, he shouts.
And so I sit up straight and give him one more chance, with rules. Rule one: don’t overload with details when I clearly understand. Rule two: October’s logical; that’s the time I want to be alone. Rule three: I don’t mind if you’re crafty, but don’t forget I know the system, too. Please note: I never ask (that’s just a tone I use). But I retain the right to plead.
TL AND I SPLASH ABOUT IN THE TUB,
RESOLVING DIFFERENCES
“What is said of a man is nothing. The point is, who says it.” —Oscar Wilde
(1) Pillows
Lie back to manufacture
images in green and white
of what you never were,
that fledgling hawk
who always had a mate.
Getting into it, “as is,”
where sense need never
be resolved,
this ordering is real, but rare,
and stands without. To look,
as in a mirror, thinking
no one’s looking back.
Flamboyance takes up time.
Though you invited him,
you’d wish TL were home again,
his home, where
he’d do nothing
but discuss
his walls
alone.
Replicate his silence,
wait until the night,
forgetting he’s alone.
Or
Pick up his
words with diligence.
It’s claustrophobic in his home.
No boy (this time)
for him to buy.
I closet him in photos
and his words
alone.
Claustrophobic.
All his doors
are shut.
Who’d pay enough
to stay with him?
*
(2) Cruelty (first true story): When Freddie was little, he wanted an aviary, so his father built him a cage in the forest. Freddie threw feed onto the floor, and the birds flew in. He shut the door and tied it with a string.
*
(3) A Dangerous Drive
The tale dissolved,
the way fine movies do, as
you, on icy roads, were driven
anywhere I chose to go.
The friend, no more a friend
than you, had worried us
as if he were a dog,
until we let him go.
And drove away.
Disaster makes a woeful world,
though if I stopped the car,
and walked it off,
what would I then have left
with which to hurt you next?
(4) Idealism: Twin princely men work for all they’ve got. The mendicant tries to find their secret. The cook creates new recipes to please. The architect resurrects a style for them. Neoclassic filigrees adorn their ceilings. Their dining room has columns. The twins sit beside each other in shared erotic bliss. They understand they’re really one, but still they’re able to be innocent, dreaming in mothlight.
*
(5) Try Ignoring Him
Since his ease took no account
of mine, why should I lavish
language on him now?
Who’s the redeemer,
who’s the redeemed?
We dream we stand
on ancient stones. Lesions
in the water swirl around
us everywhere. The water
laps the rocks.
The marks
of trilobites dissolve.
Slowly, the metric
and the waves
undermine the shore.
Here we hear
no sound as all things
come apart.
*
(6) Realism: The athlete, too young by western standards for what he’d want, draws his towel tightly near his crotch, but from the side, his thighs still show, and that’s enough for now. He dilates his eyes as if to say he’s just as gracious as men ever were. These ancient acts are not a substitution but a way to calm him for a time, as if his well lit rooms suffice.
*
(7) Club Sandwich
One day, the media made sense.
And now, I take my TL in his home,
and say
Dear Wunderbar:
You didn’t choose to stay
And that is just as well.
If we had slept it off,
I couldn’t say this now,
celebrating all you’ve done
to keep the two of us apart.
Your friendship, face, and locks
of silver hair redeem me from
the boy I might have been.
Youth’s forever, and boys
this winter day are tan in Maine!
True. I saw it on the streets
though there were snowflakes in the air.
Beach time in late December’s
not for me: what’s mine is mine.
That day the media made sense.
*
(8) Memory
Recalling diners, bars, and clubs
we once thought fine,
now limited by (sigh) no you,
I picture you in leather
standing on an opal or a pearl.
I'd like to have that figure
in a photograph.
Why not?
The French boys won’t be back.
I need my TL
now.
*
(9) Cruelty (second true story): A friend said his mother’s ashes were scattered around the rosebush he planted beside the door to his house. “The house was sold,” he said, “and they redid the lawn. I don’t know what happened to the rosebush.”
*
(10) Full House
The heat’s not on.
I’m cold.
I nestle under covers,
smelling Chlorox that
I use to purify the sheets.
It’s very late and
time to sleep but TL
wants another turn or two.
I groan.
Whatever we’ve been doing’s
not enough, he shouts.
And so I sit up straight and give him one more chance, with rules. Rule one: don’t overload with details when I clearly understand. Rule two: October’s logical; that’s the time I want to be alone. Rule three: I don’t mind if you’re crafty, but don’t forget I know the system, too. Please note: I never ask (that’s just a tone I use). But I retain the right to plead.