I am no more than
An ensouled mass of meat–
A heap of stardust and carbon;
These two eyes are the windows
Through which some angel
Of a Higher Realm
Is peering into this “reality”

Everything which surrounds me
Is no more or less than
A mirror, reflecting my inner world;
It is true whenever I’ve said
“I’m in Heaven”
and
Argue enough for my Hell
….and I’m there

I am a holy and sacred flicker
Of some delirious, demented, and Divine being
Hurtling wildly across and through
Time, and Space, and
Infinite dimensions;
My material mind seems only big enough
To contain a first-person,
Linear-continuum perspective

Somewhere else,
Some-when,
I understood that:
“In the beginning,
There was the word.”
For many years I considered myself
Quite a Master with words;
Curiously,
The more others agreed,
The less I believed it

My Past
Is an irrelevant story
Over which I’d become obsessed with telling;
My Future
Comes to naught,
When I’m stuck in my Past–
Here. Now. I am Present,
The only and one place
I’ve ever truly been

A dog is sitting on a nail.
This dog has been sitting there,
So very, very long
Howling into the Void
(As if the Void had ears to hear)
Yet never quite uncomfortable enough
To get off that nail

Crucifixion is so very BC;
Went out of vogue
Millennia ago–
Howling has finally become so tedious
That even I am sick of hearing it

I am better than my Past.
I am worthy of a Future.
I deserve my share of happiness,
And my share does not diminish
That of any other.

BELIEVE.

Some summer day
Many years and lifetimes ago–
In the “native place” of my colonial ancestors, no less–
I paid someone to tattoo that word on my chest;
I see it backwards, teasing me
Every time I look at myself;
That angel driving this material vehicle,
BOY does it have a Wicked
Sense of humor,
Perhaps irony

When I sleep,
I sometimes remember
I am God;
When I wake,
I often forget
That I am human;
Such is life

Words have always held
An immense Power;
A power which I now reclaim.
We have seen The Enemy,
And it is Us;
I have seen The Light,
And it is mine
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Please accept my rise and fall;
In The Now, I rise again–
Evermore the Phoenix, then.

You want to know
What *I* believe in?
I believe in A Higher Power–
I believe in Myself.

At 45 years of age,
I have become convinced that the moon must possess its own inner light.
As I have come to realize my own identity as a lunar deity
I also realize that my instinct to reflect the light of others
Is largely only that–instinctual–
And thus, the truth of my survival
Must rely on something deeper
And more personal.

At 45 years of age,
I have become convinced that the moon must possess its own inner light;
As someone who made the semi-informed choice
To marry a solar deity,
I am all too aware of society’s clamoring
To worship and amplify the ego-driven active principle,
To offer the award of (light) praise where merit has not been shown,
Where existing power rewards its likeness simply for existing.
I reflect, but I will not inflate–
Lunar power does not rely on placating narcissism.

(When a lunar god marries a solar king,
One can expect some conflict.)

At 45 years of age,
I have become convinced that the moon must possess its own inner light;
As the son of an astrophysicist,
I intuitively understand some little about the cosmos,
Even as my paternal fountainhead
Fiercely denied the scientific facts of climate change,
And instead embraced a mythical Sky God
Who inexplicably deserved a validity
That Father refused to award any and all other mythical figures preceding, concurrent, or following in the historical record.
I see only stories
Without authors or objective merit for worship.
I am, myself, a lunar deity!
Why give others station above my own, when I know for myself how fiercely I have fought to survive for only this long–
Mind you, not even the blink of an eye to countless other deities–
Yet to know that for myself, my own experience is the most valid, and
Therefore worthy of the most reverence;
For if I do not hold onto and protect my own story as holy,
Who would step forward as my apostle?

At 45 years of age,
I have become convinced that the moon must possess its own inner light;
I am, I was told,
“Mercurial as fuck”
Which I find as painfully accurate as I do plaintively hysterical;
What Mercury the element
And Moon the demi-planet have in common
Is a steady and thoroughly documented state of inconstancy,
A cycle which can be both tracked and (in some senses) relied upon,
Yet rarely if ever truly understood or accounted for
By those who only observe
(And in some cases, even we who experience or act firsthand).
Your telescopic view can never account for the realities
Which are typically closer than they appear.

At 45 years of age,
I have become convinced that the moon must possess its own inner light;
For if I (as with so many of my forebears) have been raped and/or ignored
For ages spanning into centuries–
And nonetheless maintain my fixed point in the cyclical heavens–
Doth this not prove unto you
The sacred, holy, occult and maddening power
With which I was born–
The Truth which proves my most powerful claims to divinity?
The capacity to maintain a personal centering
Amidst the chaos and cruelty of an external reality
Which at best often seems uncaring
And at worst, acts predatorially–
Is this not in and of itself
Worthy of worship and veneration?

At 45 years of age,
I have become convinced that the moon must possess its own inner light.
Furthermore, the moon
(And all satellites such as myself)
Can only sustain existence by self-devotion.
The day that the moon questions itself,
We will lose the most powerful light
In all the heavens.

I am a lunar deity,
And as I wax and wane throughout my years
I take comfort in knowing that
Everything is a phase.

I am Selene, and I am also Pan,
And I will dance through the dark nights of my soul,
Pure and unmolested.

Χαίρε Σελήνη, Μητέρα των
άτακτων

Chaíre Selíni, Mitéra ton átakton

Ακολουθούμε τον δρόμο της έμφυτης και παρεξηγημένης αλήθειας.

Akolouthoúme ton drómo tis émfytis kai parexigiménis alitheias.

Looking back at photos of our past–
Both of us dancing in our living room unabashedly,
Our hair as bright and colorful
As any dance floor lightshow–
How queer to juxtapose that moment
With the places we find ourselves today!
Now we both battle the progress of aging,
A steady march of grey and white soldiers–
We may concede some territory on our fleshly maps
But refute our society’s chronology stubbornly with our actions.
To muse upon the countless moments–
Which seem impossibly
To have spanned only a handful of seasons
Together in a Southern capital–
We now find unfolded into a commonality
Spanning more than two decades…
Do you see what worlds we have created, side by side?
You with whom I’ve been naked more often than many boyfriends,
Co-creator of dialectics (and belly laughs) too innumerable to conceive–
Confiding and advising in ways so effortless and time-worn…
We continue to change and evolve in parallel
From outcasts to overseers, seekers to spouses,
You remain a guiding star, a pillar,
Quinquagenarian Queen of Questing,
I revel in the honor of sharing
The delight of time’s passage
With your unique light
In my heavens.

If you are a faggot who is considering a midlife crisis,
My advice is:
Don’t.

Assuming you are more or less male-presenting,
Chances are that no one is prepared
For you to lose control of your emotions,
Especially your temper.
Men are not allowed to be angry any more,
And do not forget
That men were never supposed to hurt
Or be sad.

It does not matter if you are in your mid-forties,
And you are tired of pretending at perpetual happiness.
If you are a man–
Especially a white one–
You are meant to appreciate your privilege
And remain silent.
Your thoughts, opinions, and feelings
Are no longer welcome in the queer conversation.

If you are a faggot considering a midlife crisis,
You had better be prepared for loneliness.
When men of a certain age appear weak
Or unstable, or troubled,
Those around him will back away.
Most people you know
Expect your position to stay fixed at your age,
Expect you to have your shit together, always,
Expect polite dinner conversation
Amusing quips, salacious anecdotes,
And “good vibes only”.
You are forbidden to stray,
And if you do,
The invitations will cease.
If you cannot maintain your role
As the “magickal homosexual”–
Able to “queer eye” your straight friends’ problems away
And provide your network with what you’ve always
And (seemingly) effortlessly produced since your 20s,
Prepare yourself for a new and unpleasant reality.

If you are a faggot considering a midlife crisis,
You should expect to contemplate death
A lot.
You are, or course, aware that so few queer men
Of the generation preceding yours
Actually made it as far as you,
And those who did
Were severely traumatized.
You will, of course,
Wonder why and how you’ve managed
To survive this long;
It’s not as if you’ve been careful all these years,
After all.
Perhaps you’ve even been intentionally reckless.
And yet, stubbornly,
This incarnation has continued.
And now you have become largely forgotten and overlooked
By those who are ten years your junior or below:
These generations care little for your past,
And less for your present.

If you are a faggot considering a midlife crisis,
You may wish for death.
This is, in my opinion, reasonable.
It’s easy to feel abandoned and hopeless
At this point in your life;
Easy to feel that everything you achieved in your past
(If you are, indeed, lucky enough to have had achievements)
Is now lost to time and memory,
With few others left alive–or close–to tell the stories.

If you are a faggot considering a midlife crisis,
You probably feel irrelevant.
You may feel unloved, and unseen,
Abandoned, washed-up, discarded,
Unwanted, undesirable, self-absorbed,
And most of all,
Old.

I am a faggot, and my midlife crisis
Is now beyond consideration.
I am having a midlife crisis,
And my advice to you is:
Don’t.

A master
Our maestro
You have written for me
A part, a role in this
Sacred Queer Musical Story
You who can strip a tune of its words and melody
As deftly as a lover
Find its soul and re-clothe it
In new yet strangely familiar syntax…
Scrumbly I owe you my career
Many of my best memories
I would bare my flesh for your pretty songs any day
Act out your perverse theatrical fantasies every night
Ride into the eternal Cockettes sunset with you
Cum the Apocalypse
I would bear your standard
And sing your praises
Until the Angels themselves
Hummed your tunes.

Lying alone in the dark
I floated on my back in an ocean of bile, staring up at the stars for one entire lunar cycle, trying to read an answer but finding none.
This….break
A fracture
A severing of the ultimate tie which I foolishly believed to be binding
Only to find myself bound instead
to a bottomless chasm
Whose name is Rage.
Through the Void of righteous anger
I tumbled and fell
For immeasurable moments
Like the severed highway
Between earthly existence and Godhead
Grasping for an eternal forever
For the sweet perfume of Binah–
The holy Goddess cavern from which
we all emerged, a primordial ooze
Yearning for greater form and purpose
A thousand needles pricked my tender flesh
Not heeding the messages flooding my chest
With liquid love.
A Fool’s parade of cards
Were lain before me in endless permutations
Explaining nothing
But what was already there in front of me:
Somewhere.
Locked inside,
For so long.
An animal instinct.
Emotion so raw that it could
Rend flesh from bone–
Yet the only rational response
To a world that wounded; hurt
In so many unfair and unfathomable ways
Until I was forced to cage this beast
Making my first pact with The Devil
Of modern existence:
To put on the false face
Of society’s manufacturing,
That of
EVERYTHING IS FINE
I’M DOING WELL, THANK YOU
HOW MAY I HELP YOU?
A consumer capitalist lie
Manufactured only in the name
Of another man’s profit.
And yet,
After uncountable numbers of lit matches
Being thrown down into this dark well,
At long last this Leo,
A crouching tiger
My hidden dragon
Struck like Saint Michael
Into the Heart of The Beast,
Lit the fuse
And opened the cage
Of a creature who long has lain in wait–
With a creak of rusted hinges
And sulphuric smile,
The mad animal whispered a single word:
“Finally.”
And thus was an unmitigated Fury unleashed.
A chorus of screams, wails, and shouts
Broke open like the Seventh Seal
And poured forth from my lips
To anyone who would listen
And to many who could not.
The hydrogen bomb set loose from my spleen
Created a blast radius of countless hearts.
Thus was loneliness my sole companion
Being struck blind by a wrathful
Old Testament god
Yaldabaoth
Also-blind
I have wandered in your desert
Crying out to the Heavens
WHAT HAVE I DONE
WHY HATH THOU FORSAKEN ME
Never realizing through a fog of
Full Moon madness (so many clouds)
That it was I who had
Forsaken myself.

Krishnamurti may have said
“It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society”
Yet also is it not true that
“If you’re not ANGRY
You’re not paying attention?”
Thus it is that I must own
My Queen of Swords–
My cruel discernment
My blade of cold reason
Recognize that surgeon’s razor
As my tool
Capable of wounding, yes
But also of letting the toxic blood
Draining the sins of our Fathers
And pouring sweet surrender into me.
Here where uncollared choler and sanguine meet
My humor is hereby restored;
I bleed myself into these senseless syllables
Once more pouring forth
An endless cavalcade of words,
My belief infusing them with a meaning:

May all those hurt and heavy-laden
Know that I, too, have suffered greatly
And may you see

After the curses of February are lifted
The light of your own sacred

Shadow.

I’m sorry.
I don’t blame you for hating me.
I know that I am loud and insane
but I do *try* to be considerate as much
as I possibly can be
although I realize
that don’t count for much.

I’m sorry you have to hear
all my lunatic rantings
and loud sex
and my taste in music

I cannot blame you
for saying FUCK YOU
to my face when I said
“oh, hello”
at our threshold

I can only try
and trying is never good enough.

I’m sorry I exist.
I’m sorry my parents had me.
I’m sorry you have to live under me.
I never made the rules
and seldom follow them, either.

I am sorry to be broken
and sorry for the fallout
which you endure.

I thank you for not calling the cops on me
I thank you for not acting out more

By the way
for a long time I wasn’t the insane
and annoying person who’s
living above you now
there was someone else but
unfortunately he left with no notice
left with all of his stuff here
including his insanity
and I just sort of absorbed it from the floor.

I’m sorry it took us so long to put any rugs down.
I’m sorry we haven’t put down more.

I’m sorry for my baggage.
I know you were here first.
I try to be good
I try to be nice
It does not always work.

I will always gladly watch out
so no one can steal your packages
I figure it’s the least a neighbor
could do for a neighbor
I actually like having neighbors,
and honestly, I think I like
having you as one.

I think perhaps it was this morning
after sunrise, after the post office
before my last sip of coffee
I had walked past a food bank set up
in the school parking lot
on my way to sit in the park
for just a few minutes

I think I became infected
with some new sort of hope
My mask of tragedy
fell away
And in its absence
came the presence
not of comedy
but of grace.

There is great audacity
in believing oneself worthy
in feeling seen
in allowing all the love in

An absurd notion struck me
on the ride home:
This City
may never call me Emperor
but perhaps it has always cared for me
nonetheless.

If my compassion is relentless
If my kindness is heartfelt
and my compliments sincere
I may not find enlightenment
nor buy a place in heaven

But, Fates allowing,
I will stay
and that will help.

Please forgive me if i seem a little
        intangible
these days
i’ve begun to think that maybe
i make a better story
        than i do a person
If my touch seems cold
it’s only because
Life is for the living
        and i might be a ghost
                of some past time
Forgotten now.
These here fingers are still out there grasping
but all words have become weapons and
        even just asking
Feels wrong.
Life keeps on slipping through me
like liquid/sand down an hourglass/drain
and i’m grabbing and clutching
but fingers slip
        like a mask
and suddenly exposure is deadly AGAIN…

Please excuse me if i sound a little
        irrational
these days
i’ve begun to believe that i might
make a better statistic
        than i do a human
I’ve already survived a Plague, don’t you see?
i got it but i lived and yet now the whole world
        is dying
What if memories
are all we’ll have left?

I listened as Nikki Giovanni read:
  I am cotton candy on a rainy day
  the unrealized dream of an idea unborn
(I was barely 18 then
but her knife cut to the bone
that my heart doesn’t even have)
  I share with the painters the desire
  To put a three-dimensional picture
  On a one-dimensional surface

How could you even hear me
if i just keep
        writing?
It’s not as if these words
could be touched, even if spoken aloud.
The “i” who is:
  a writer
  a lover
  a statistic
  a story
All these are still contained
inside some Dorothy, looking for home
there’s a heart, a brain, some little bit of courage
lots of shoes but aren’t enough of those heels
already clicking out there?
Just as these fingers keep clicking across a keyboard,
a body if not a voice that’s screaming into the void.

I think i might’ve been young enough someday to believe
that i had all the answers,
but i’ve read a lot more books now so i realize
“the master knows nothing.”

Reality might become virtual but that won’t stop
        the howling
of the wind, the void, the wolves, or the voices
of all of us who always knew in our souls
that a better future awaits.