The Interview Process


Come in, take a seat, make yourself
comfortable; this process will last as
long as your patience.

Show me your resume, the amount
of hearts you’ve wasted,
and tell me what you have to offer.

But don’t speak with your mouth,
speak with your eyes and show me
the force between two poles.

Magnetize me, pull me in,
like a thread through a needle’s
eye and cover this nude body.

Tell me a little about your experience:
Are you a beast in the woods, or a
baby wrapped in a virgin’s toga?

Are you a stone wall who never breaks,
or perhaps a flow of emotions which
sometimes pours onto the floor?

Have you ever curled up next to the
idea of perfection, or do your
aspirations lie pale on pale?

Hispanic or Latino, Native American,
Asian, Black, White or Other?
It doesn’t matter which box is checked.

Your references, I could careless
about their numbers and addresses,
boxer-briefs or secret dresses.

The sky is my preference,
from the top of the mountains to
the bottom valley and their streams.

Are you the rocks they course
through, or the misty daze at the
base of a waterfall?

Will you stay for more than a month,
a year, three years, or leave when in
the middle of a dream?

I have fired many before the
word “boy” ever had a chance to
blend with “friend.”

I’ve extinguished them, watered down
the embers and let smoke fly into
the air, and you no different.

Until you can touch my skin and
dazzle the planetarium within will
I let you count my freckle’s constellations.

Under skills you have placed the
tongue, the fingers and the pelvic area;
all the tasteful parts of a man.

But is your spirit able to be xeroxed,
faxed, sent in a message and delivered
to the mind’s office?

Where shall I store you, exactly?
In the returns, the write-ups,
the business deals or trash bin?

Are you the special kind of person
I’m looking for, the one who actually
tells the truth on their application?

Or could you be the liar, the one
who fibs about his education and
smiles like a training video?

The perfect fit, the cog, the morning
turn-over in a fog and a warm embrace;
what can you give  my company?

Everything or nothing? Something
old, something new, something
borrowed, something blue.

Are you single or divorced?
Are you a widower who longs for
his lover’s ghostly lament?

Have you ever been arrested?
Is your only crime that which bares
the guilt of pulling him under?

And finally, I want to know why
you believe I should pick you like
a precious honey suckle.

I’ve asked all I need to ask,
there are others who I need to see,
if I’m interested, I will contact you.

April 2017

For a Partner in Crime


Don’t bother learning their interests,
don’t bother finding poetry in their eyes
or the boy in their laugh, for they will fade
like the rest and become another memory
you want to forget.

Not because they are objects, but for the
simple reason that you only braille, or
frail ink they wash off and the goodbye
towel to wipe away anything that was
ever confessed.

They are not your priest, they are not
a Holy box with butterfly walls, they are
merely a reflection of what you desire
and love, whatever it is, will be extinguished
after the heat cools.

Don’t be a fool, know he is a Jack to
jump over and never become the candle
stick; you are the flame and always
remember that, because to not have
confidence is to be snuffed.

Out of mind, out of sight, out of touch
with their five fingers is how you should
leave them, like a closed book without
a mark so they will be forced to find
the place where they left off.

Somewhere between the conversation
and the sheets, and if they don’t care
to find the hidden meaning in the pages
then they were never important; just an
asterisk to white out.

Some will pretend to be your biography,
the scandalous tell-all, a cup of tea and
the feathers on Hedda Hopper’s hat; they
were, after all, only a mouth to begin with
and an ear to bite.

But nobody knows the hidden bullet,
or why you even crawled into their
chamber in the first place, except for
you, of course, and your heavy gun you
aimed that blew them away.

That blast which swept them off their
feet and caused their toes to curl like
angel hair, and an empty hole like the
“O” in moan, where a heart was never
a heart but just a club.

An ace of spades that tell it like it is,
a message clearer than glacier water
or the sweat on their forehead, it lets them
know you can read their hand and
every card in the deck.

The king, the queen, the joker, they all
shuffle around and mix things up,
always showing up in all the places
you least expect to find them, such as
the diner, the party or in the pool.

And as a wise woman once told me,
one cannot un-pluck, just like it’s impossible
to un-die or un-smoke or un-speak, and
that once it has been done it is done;
however, you can understnand.

But there is one who sees what the blind cannot,
they leave fingerprints and see
beyond the motive and down to the core
where the diamond sparkles; this is
evidence you shouldn’t destroy.

Because they will defend you and turn
tables to find the answer, they will testify
in silence to the death while listening
to every reason and to them you are only
guilty until proven innocent.

Coming Out

It’s a band-aid that covers wounds
they stabbed into your hands and feet as
a child, only it never heals and it’s always there.

Because at one point they thought you
would be the second coming of Christ, greater
than Sodom and Gomorrah, straight-laced.

A shoe, boot heavy, foot-filled and below
the sole is expectations: A child, a baby, born
of blood and flesh, never, ever adopted.

The birds never sing, the bees always sting
when your father explained tender feelings of
being a real boy, it made it you rot inside.

That same infection, growing over your
body and crystallizing you in scabs, the kids
on the playground picked at it.

They called you a f*g, they called you a
queer, girl of the year, cradling baby dolls
in your arms and trying on your mother’s heels.

Whether you are top or a bottom, you’ve
always wanted to be beautiful like her and
used her hairbrush as a microphone.

When you gazed in the mirror, there was
always the realization beneath your skin like a
splinter or the claws of lobster gripping you.

It never let it go, it grew in strength,
it tore you apart and died a millions times
when your parents said he couldn’t come over.

And when he did spend the night, this boy
was your friend and eventually the two words
between deteriorated and left only one:

Boyfriend; God, how you wanted one, a prince,
a bromance without the B, someone to sleep next
to and dream of another life.

One which hadn’t been buried by the church,
your evil grandmother, the cousins who disowned
you, the dust beneath the carpet.

Swept away, family secret, shame, shame,
shame, no matter how accepting they become,
they will never know the pain.

They will never what it’s like to want to die,
to hold sleeping pills in your palm or hang
yourself with a belt; they call it crazy.

As a matter of fact, even the ones who aren’t
suicidal are seen as insane, because the
desire to kiss the same gender is an illness.

They have no idea that God is of nature,
a water spirit, washed over by tears and
called upon constantly with every breath.

Eventually you had to do it, you had to come,
out accept the desire for his torso, his legs,
his eyes and his soul; you had to die.

Because coming out feels like dying, all
at once, a gunshot to the stomach, a fingernail
pulled back on a broken hand.

It swells up over so many years, it pours
from your gazers, sometimes it still kills you
even after the cuts have healed.

When you go to family reunion and suddenly
increase in weight, you become to the
elephant in the small room.

You can hear their thoughts asking questions,
you can see the look on their faces; it’s a
troubled stare, a pluck of the hair.

Eventually they find out at work, some don’t
care and some do, sometimes there’s one
who makes you never want to clock-in.

No matter where you go, you always come
out, over and over and over again, there is
never just one door.

But it’s better to keep walking through them
and never close it for good, because one day
you’ll never come out of the coffin.

Hey God

I’ve come around again with this boulder
in my stomach, my bones rattling like an
earthquake and mind full of doom. You know,
the what ifs and maybes; they love to weigh
in on every second and minute.

The roads divided, lighting veins and split
hallways, it’s a merry-go-round of uncertainty
slowly prancing into a stampede. Full of
doubt, full of fear, a razor blade scratching
against a blackboard.

It’s in times such as these that I find myself
conversing with you, invisible monument,
big unknown, the candy clouds in stretched
baby blue. I’ve come to you as a child and
still echo to this very day.

Despite what the atheists say, that you’re flat,
lifeless, the contents of an alcoholic’s bottle,
I have never been able to bring myself to agree.
For I have chased it all down and been to Hell
black as near death.

I have brought myself up from the floor,
held the globe, tasted the acid in my mouth
and dragged myself like a cat struck by a car.
One time accidental, the other intentional;
however, without medication.

For I contemplated it, felt the coldness of a
belt buckle and romanticized greatly; only you
know that it wasn’t really serious. I did, however,
lock myself away to escape the world and died
inside a million times.

Sometimes I still die, just not as hard, when
I see those who worship you hold signs to keep
the dying dead, or when my mother questions if
I will be with her when it’s all said done and the
nerves become dry roots.

I wish you could tell her without being mute that
those who claim to have found the truth are
smoldering in their own hate. They rewrote your
book and painted your tongue red to have a reason
to speak.

And I will admit I am sometimes cross with you,
for it is inevitable for the scarred flesh to question
which cannot be seen. For instance, why did you
make my eyes and heart desire the torso of a man?

His appendages, his strong jaw and strong legs
supported by his feet; why must I gravitate around
him as a full moon bare? Pale, glowing, turning over
and moving tides gently with my deep, loving glare
sharper than an arrow.

Is it blasphemy to say I find sanctuary beneath
sheets and think about you after such a touch
has brought Heaven to Earth? Would it be wrong
to pretend you’re blind and non-existent when
I’ve unrolled myself?

Where is the line from always having you in
my heart and do you crumble along with it?
When his lips have connected with another and
my hands cover my face, are you still in my chest
or in my palms?

These are questions which have an answer but
can’t be heard, and the mere silence drives me off
a cliff where jagged stones come to meet. Again,
it kills me and I still walk and talk and carry my many
lives in a bag.

For it is something which must be done and no
church or pastor or deacon can ease the anvil
on my shoulders. Only you, my prized nickle,
my shiny drop of hope, the parts of me that
are still a blonde child.

Allow me to live, breathe happily, to flourish like
a hydrangea and move as the wind through
golden wheat fields. See me for my shutter of
mortality, keep me in your arms and as always,
amen, amen, amen.

The Medium’s Hour

This is what they’ve done, and it won’t be
be the last, for they’ve pulled me from my coffin
of filth like a vampire with a cat’s tongue and
parched desire for water and killing tar.
Was it enough to have a decent slumber and
allow eggshell blue tablets to knock me into a
coma? Just once would I love the purple bags
of sand lifted from my lids.
To not wake up to the humid afternoon,
to start the day at dawn and sip blonde coffee
as any normal person. The exploding clouds
of hazelnut desire such a routine.
Instead I’m left with spirits that shoot up
and call me from the edge of the universe.
If only there were a way to keep them inside
crystal orbs to mute their cries.
Instead they hang around the silence,
a quietness more massive and violent than
Jupiter’s red storm. Why the ghosts can’t
come at three in the afternoon, I’ll never know.
With them come different thoughts,
such as death’s blanket, selected memories
and God’s rejections. Furthermore, they pace
the cold floors and rub their eyes.
I believe the worst part about two a.m.
is how it all feels like a tape fast-forwarded
and paused simultaneously. Bad tracking,
bundled strips of film and nonstop loops.
Nevertheless, innovation can be found
in its static and the haunting souls deliver
a mind full of clarity through fog. I call it the
beacon of absolute disarray.
Where those who are lost in the clutter,
the endless caverns and spiral staircases find
a reason. It’s the same epiphany drunks
have when nobody takes them home.
Alone, trapped in a still whirlpool,
the ghastly tap the table three times when
only two were called for. They curl up and
collapse like abandoned buildings and ships.
Across the skyline, over cities and farmhouses,
sorcerers reach their arms out to become the
darkness. They are the darkness, whispering
spells from their lips.
The stakes have been taken back,
the fire at their feet, matches struck and butane
dreams run rampant. Much so as a monster
hiding behind evil pines.
Streets, those empty, paved maps,
they welcome wandering crooks with hooks
as sinister as the devil’s looks. Pale faces on
walls make subtle sounds.
And it’s always I, the medium, who documents
such things and lives to tell the tale. My god,
I should be thankful the moon wasn’t full this
time around.


Scowling windows, unhinged mouth, blood boiled
veins and a wall down the middle; they’re the
devil’s finger puppets. They raise the precious
daises, water the children’s garden, then cut
the stems and place them in a vase.
Full of piss, full of oil, full of themselves inside
and out; they hide in their house and shut every
open threshold. One can usually find them in the
countryside, lungs thick and full of hot air
like a summertime tent revival.
Snake handlers, twisted tongues, they claim to
be His voice, but channel evil in the form hymns
and washed feet. Muddy hooves, squealing primitive
arrogance, a lesson taught by their fathers,
hatched from the fool’s gold egg.
In order to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, one must
be clever, sharp as a splinter and snuggle beneath
the skin. Instead, these little piggies believe they
can withstand the carnivore’s huff and puffs when
they’re already in its belly.
To keep from being regurgitated and forced to
see the light, they spread stomach acid in the
graveyard as a mother morns her bundle of sticks.
These swines, they light twigs and burn her at
the stake as a cursed witch.
Or they drown her in a sea filled with tears to see
if she floats, because the queer, dead apple of her eyes
is a fruit they refuse to taste. But deep down, under the
lard and sticky sweat, some of them desire the tree’s gift:
A weeping willow’s seed.
However, they cut it down to keep themselves from
growing, destroy every leaf and twig and use the bark
to make paper in books they’ll never read. Instead,
the hogs channel misguidance like a palm reader who
can’t find a nail wound in a hand.
Hateful eyes, snorting snouts, squealing and dumb,
the pigs’ mind is encased in doorless room of thick bricks
built by  the unknowing, the disgust, the hollow monument
that stands tall and proud. And their need to destroy
is only but a broken mirror.
It’s the reflection they hate more than the pupils which
don’t belong to them, and the blind only gauge those who
see the truth. A lie upon lie, a scar on a scar, a hole that
digs itself closer to the smoldering pits of Hell, where
every made bed must be occupied.
They are damned and doomed, crawling straight into
the slaughterhouse’s relentless snare and anointed by a
sledgehammer. The big G, the big government, the desired
acceptance, a perfect lie branded on their thighs. This is
what they’ve grown to become.


Listen, I’ll just go ahead and say it. I have BDD (Body Dysmorphic Disorder.) It’s the obsession of a physical flaw that may be minor or, most of time, in my case, imagined.

For example, I obsess over my hairline, I obsess over my jawline, I obsess over my lips. Sometimes I see myself in the mirror and think I’m chubby and pregnant, then other times I will see myself as a famished corpse. There’s really no in between.

It’s like a high frequency beam that is both mind-numbing and breaks my concentration; however, what’s odd is I don’t always feel ugly. There are times where I can walk by a store window and feel confident. But the thing with BDD is it follows, waiting for you to walk by a poster of a Calvin Klein model in the mall.

A lot of times I compare myself to guys on Google. Hell, sometimes Instagram and Tumblr are my worst enemies. Let’s face it though, they’ve got the best cake.

I rarely take group photos, I go through spells where I don’t use my actual profile picture, I pick my skin, I either avoid mirrors or stare deeply into them; god forbid I get hung up in a dressing room.

Don’t laugh, but the best way to describe it is like being Mr. Potato Head. A fabulous, confident Mr. Potato Head, may I add, and then this angry toddler removes your best features and replaces it with something ugly. You’ll be in a panic, trying your best to remove the horrible insecurity and damn does the child shake the hell out of you.

Then, right when you’re on the edge of breaking down, this kid becomes calm, removes the ugly affliction and puts back the nose you like– then he replaces your eyebrows with caterpillars and, once more, the vicious cycle continues.

But please know that I’m not posting this because I want you to say I’m beautiful or good-looking. As a matter of fact, I know I’m attractive. My mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I praise the Heavens I inherited her looks.

The only person who really needs to tell me I’m beautiful is me.

And I also posted this because it’s actually a very, very common psychological disorder… especially with gay guys. For real, I’ve seen a 20 year old guy almost break down cause someone joked about him having a non-existent grey hair.

I’ve seen guys in the basement of a gay club wash their hands in the bathroom sink, then stop and stare desperately at their reflections. Sometimes it’s four of them.

I’ve had a guy LITERALLY start blubbering on my shoulder because he turned 34 and referred to himself as worn-down, old leather. Shit, he acted as if the stock market crashed. (Btw he actually looked about 27.)

I’ve seen genuinely adorable, beautiful guys who legit will get all crazy just because they aren’t good enough or their skin is too pale. Holy hell, I once liked a guy who, in his words, was “fat and disgusting.” I mean, yeah, he wasn’t skinny then, but he has one of the most handsome mugs I’ve EVER seen to this day. Like, for real.

Even one of my best friends thinks he is “gay fat” (I hate that term.)

Again, I’m not posting this because I want you to tell me I’m hot or sexy or gorgeous. I’m posting this because I want you to tell yourself that you’re beautiful. I want to feel okay in your skin. I want you to try and not let this mental plague get the best of you.

Oh, and just breathe.

And stop using tanning beds, cause you’ll end up like a baked Mr. Potato Head.