Outtakes, Odds, and Ends from Over The Years
Nathan
I
loved the feel of him shirtless next to me in bed and the manner in which the
soft, worn nylon of his favorite soccer shorts crumpled against my skin. His slight, chiseled dancer's form was made all the
more glorious by the fading light of day; it filtered through the window,
basking him in a beautiful, revealing light.
I wish I knew what became of that beautiful young man who once held my heart in the most profound way.
Napoleon
(Houston, Texas 2004)
Handpicked
by drunken friends,
I
was to bestow the first kiss
Of
your twenty-fifth year.
You
were too polite to say
You
had no taste for the gift
That had been given you.
There’s
a buck-toothed boy
And
he’s looking mighty fine.
There’s
a buck-toothed boy
And he’s paying me no mind.
In Mrs. Floyd’s fifth grade English
class, I was reciting Robert Frost’s poem, “Through A Wood On A Snowy Evening.”
One of the lines read, ‘stopped to give his harness bells a shake’, but I
slipped and said ‘stopped to give his hairy balls a shake’. Everyone in class started laughing
hysterically, but I hadn’t realized my error.
I became self-conscious, stopped, and asked Mrs. Floyd why everyone was
laughing at me. Although she was about
to bust a gut herself, she somehow managed to tell me to keep reciting the
poem.
In fifth grade, my subconscious was already fixated on testicles. It was surely a harbinger of things to come.
At
The Gym Or In Bed?
You’re
hard- bodied
Don’t
breathe like that
I’m
here, listening to you pant,
Just
as I was about to be processed into glue, I was rescued from the knacker’s yard.
“Why
how could you ever have made such a mistake as to have nearly made me into
glue,” I questioned.
“Sir,
you have four legs, and thus we thought you were a horse.”
“Why,
two of those legs aren’t mine! Those are the legs of the man who’s been fucking me for the past three
days.”
Astonished,
they replied, “Why, he has no head, and is in fact quite dead!”
“Then that must be why off the three days he’s been fucking me, his dick has only been hard for two of them.”
The Film Critic
Sitting in the Jefferson Theatre, I overheard a sorority socialite
explain to her cunt-whipped male companion the plot of the film ‘Rent'.
“It’s a movie about guys poking around in each other’s asses and
then dying of AIDS,” she quipped, her mouth open wide to remind her enslaved
Neanderthal of where his cock would be if he expressed amusement at her
homophobic assessment of the film.
My gut instinct was to turn to her and, in the most effeminate voice I
could muster, say, “Dahling, ‘Rent’ isn’t just about ass fucking and
AIDS; it’s about sucking cock as well. From
the bored, unsatisfied look on your boyfriend’s face, I suggest you watch it multiple
times.”
However, I was a good homosexual, biting down savagely on a gummy
bear’s head to stay my tongue. For
what good is combating ignorance with its twin?
Anyone who has seen ‘Rent’, whether on stage or on film, knows it’s
not as the sorority slut of substandard suck-offs described.
Nor would its plot have been done any favors by my equally derisive
summation.
The next night, I went to see ‘Rent’, and I despised the film to such an extent that I left halfway through it. Yet, I’m glad I went because the motivation, to support a film that featured homosexual characters, was pure. The hatred and ignorance of that young woman from the previous night demanded that I be in attendance.
Tonight,
the Darkness troubles me. It belittles
me and says I’m not strong enough to make it on my own. It’s an adrenaline rush coursing
through my veins, offering a strength I don’t possess.
I thought this was all done, that I had been
integrated or unpossessed, or whatever had occurred to make me well enough to
write something genuinely free of Darkness like “The Book of Light”.
Perhaps this is just the integration leveling out…all the fragments coming together, trying to form a whole.
I’ve been trying to use prayer to keep the Darkness at bay, but it's so very strong. Yet, I have to believe that my faith and I are stronger. I must never stop believing that.
Whenever the argument is made that Jesus did not transcend in bodily form, the zealot right wing of Christendom goes up in arms. Well, I hate to break it to the religious ‘purists’, but if in fact Jesus was resurrected after his crucifixion, it was in non-corporeal form. My reasoning for this inference is as follows:
We wake each morning,
and the first act we have to undertake is a shower; this is followed by the
application of some form of scent to mask our own naturally odiferous one. Our flesh is inherently
impure. So, when fundamentalists
Christians argue that Christ ascended to Heaven in physical form, they are
inadvertently admitting that Heaven is impure.
The whole idea of Jesus being
resurrected in physical form is perpetrated by heterosexual males who cannot
bear the idea that at any given time, even in the afterlife, that they will be
without their penis and the sexual activity that accompanies it. Heaven, if it exists, would be a wholly
spiritual environ and most assuredly absent of men copulating like bunnies at
the height of mating season.
Jesus did not take his penis to
Heaven, and neither shall any of the rest of us.
I had been invited to his home, and
after a brief greeting, he asked if there was anything he could get for
me. I replied that he could take off
his pants and fix me some pancakes.
Then, I realized if he took off his pants, he might be wearing
boxers, which meant I’d lose my attraction towards him. Or, perhaps he would be wearing a thong, and
if he had a furry backside, I’d more than likely run out the door at the sight
of it, for I couldn’t stand the thought of someone with a hairy ass making me
pancakes. Then, there was the
possibility he could be wearing sexy underwear, but they would be white in
color, and it would disturb me that any human being would wear white underwear
given the high likelihood of them being stained by bodily waste and then lying
in a corner of our (in the improbable event of marriage) laundry room, a
reminder of the inherent filthiness of the thing I was going to bed with every
night. Of course, there was the
possibility that he would take down his pants, and he would be wearing a hot
swim brief, but with my luck, it would be a tacky colored-print, and not one of the solid-colored ones that I really like. Worse yet, his pants could fall to his
ankles, only to find him wearing no underwear at all. Then, as he made me pancakes, I’d have to stare at his penis the
entire while…and if it’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the sight of a
penis. (God love me, I may be a gay
male and I’m supposed to love them, but why were they fashioned so poorly?) This was all racing through my mind at ninety miles per
hour, and though mere seconds had passed since I made this strange request of a
man I barely knew, his face registered enough shock as to have been bombarded
by the vast sum of my neuroses. So, I
looked at him, and I said, “I should leave, shouldn’t I?” And he replied, “Yes, I think you should.”
I once viewed a television program that dealt with the ramifications of an albino gazelle being born into a group of genetically ‘correct’ gazelles. Though the albino recognized the others as family and sough to interact with them, they in turn ostracized it, biting at it every time it neared.
I was reared as that albino creature,
being bitten with each instance I tried to get close to someone, whether
family, lovers, or friends. In the end
though, whereas that gazelle died as a result of its ostracization,
I became the things that left their teeth marks in my flesh. Only, I became them to the thousandth
degree, and I would have rather died than to have become the monster I am today.
Life
We start out raw and end up half-baked,
With
no explanation
Thrown
The
man woke up and said,
“Baby,
I love you,”
But
she didn’t want to hear.
He
crawled out of bed,
Left
her fading warmth behind,
Reached
for the pills
To
ease his worried mind.
They
were all gone;
Dark
tides were rolling in;
He
looked in the mirror,
Hated
what he saw and said,
”No more living if this is all life is.”
His
girl slipped out of bed,
Put
her best dress on,
Drove
down South,
Met
with a man and said,
”Baby, I love you;
Dreams
come cheap;
Let’s
buy them all together.
He
was rich, left it all to me,
Said
he loved me,
But
baby, I love you more.”
“Yes,
baby, I love you more.”
Baby,
I loved you more.
Shove
off, and I’ll see you
Once today’s
A,K.A.
"My fucked-up, so-called life"
Has
been taped and is in the can!
Tonight,
Of
red, wavy hair
And
heroic features…
An
Achilles
Or
Patrocholus
Of
Myth….
A
God of the water,
Near-naked,
Creature
divine,
Stood
near to me.
Moment
Seared into memory,
Never
cease to haunt;
Become
my
And
never shall
I
mourn for
I
have lost.
Josh rode Robbie,
Who not long before
Had ridden me.
So, I’ve ridden Josh
By way of Robbie,
Though I wish Josh
Would look my way
So I could ride him
His
heartache shall not kill him,
Though
if it could,
His
eulogy would read:
“He
chose to be a penis first,
A partner second…
Though,
ultimately, he failed
At both.”
The
manner in which he says he's craving apple pie with ice cream makes you believe
it’s some kind of ambrosia. So bright
is the light in his eyes and so enthralling is the warmth of his smile that
you’d go to the Himalayas to get it for him if it were the only place apple pie
a la mode was known to exist.
The
Bicycle Voyagers (July 25, 2006)
Destination
uncharted and uncared for, three teenage boys coast down a city street. Their hair is blowing in the wind, their
shirts trailing, their shadows running to keep up with bodies that know no
burdens. Perhaps they are going to the
corner market, maybe down to the river for a swim. Even if it were to oblivion, I envy their journey and wish I
could be voyaging alongside them.
In my senior year of high school, I was
cast as Doc in “West Side Story.” The young man portraying Tony was named Todd, who went on to become a recording artist in the country music
industry. Even when he was a teenager,
with his natural, undeniable talent, it was apparent Todd was going places.
All the praise out of the way, Todd was cocky and definitely secure in the knowledge of his gifts.
Even though we grew up two miles
apart from one another in rural Greene County, we couldn’t have been more
different. He was handsome, popular,
and heterosexual; I was an outcast, unpopular, and homosexual.
I had been teased mercilessly in high
school, and by my senior year, I was fed up with it. Such was my mindset when Todd and I got thrown together in “West
Side Story”. Early in the rehearsal
process, he came up to me and said, “You’re just so strange that it doesn’t
seem right to call you by any proper name, so I’m going to call you ‘Bizarre’
instead.”
Every rehearsal thereafter, he would
make statements such as, “How are things today, Bizarre? Is life treating you well, Bizarre? What’s it like to be you, Bizarre?”
Now, in Todd’s defense, he said these
words with a smile that could have melted churned butter. Other young men in high school usually
screamed homosexual slur names and then tried to use me as a projectile.
However, as stated earlier, I was fed up with the entire business of being teased. Being called ‘Bizarre’ was certainly not excluded.
There is a scene late in “West Side”
in which Doc becomes angry with Tony and slaps him. On opening night, Todd looked at me and
said, “Break a leg out there, Bizarre.” I thought to myself, “I’m going to
let that boy have it when I hit him.”
Sure enough, when I slapped him, the blow
reverberated through the auditorium, and the audience gasped. They could tell it hadn’t been faked, there
had been actual physical contact, and it hadn’t been a love tap. After the show, Todd asked me what had
gotten into me, and I replied that I had been in character and had gotten lost in
the emotion.
The next night, during the same scene, I
went to hit Todd, and he stepped backward, so I would miss him. It looked ridiculous, so I caught him with a
backhand.
The moral of this tale is that if you are
an actor in a production, and you have a scene in which a member of the company
has to hit you, don’t tell said actor that they don’t deserve to have a real
name, because said actor will bitch slap the life out of you.
And that is the story of how a boy
dismissively christened ‘Bizarre’ took back his rightful name.
When I graduated high school, I was very
much a virgin. I had only been touched
in passing by two young men; one had drifted his hand up my shorts while asking
to borrow a pencil; the other had grabbed my ass and simulated finger
fucking me through my jeans. (The latter
also whispered the words “gang bang” in my ear at an assembly, which I found very erotic, even though
I had no idea what the phrase meant.)
At the time, I was very proud of my
virginity (though in hindsight, how I wish I had come undone at the seams for
some of those boys). Consequently, as though wearing my chastity as a banner, I chose to wear
a white to graduation (by tradition, male students were to wear green
robes). The consequent uproar was a
thing of disbelief.
The other students swore that I was out to ruin their graduation. One stated that I was trying to make a
mockery of what would be the best day of her life, to which I snidely
replied, “If your high school graduation is going to be the best day of your
life, then I truly feel sorry for you.”
Soon, my family began to receive
threats that I wouldn’t make it to graduation alive if I wore a white robe.
It was long thereafter when one of my
aunts came crying to me, saying she would pay me a few hundred dollars if I’d
only wear green and stop bringing shame to the family.
Sad as I am to admit it, I took the money
and wore the green robe.
Logically, a number of students
questioned who had taken my virginity.
I replied that I wasn't allowed to say, but it was a young man they knew well, and he
dated one of the prettiest girls in school.
A few hundred dollars
in his pocket and a new scandal,
for what more could a homosexual teenager ask?
I recently read that even though the
United States military has a severe shortage of troops they continue to
discharge homosexual soldiers for violating “Don’t ask; Don’t’ Tell”. With the rampant homophobia in this nation,
I would have thought the clitoris/bigotry/ignorance loving team of Bush/Rumsfeld would be sending those gay boys straight to the front lines to
meet their queer Maker. So, on behalf
of all the homosexuals whose lives you have spared, please accept my
thanks.
Now, if only you would spare our
heterosexual brethren your blood-soaked policies of nation building, this
country would indeed be much improved.
Spiritual Plague
There are six growths on my right eyelid.
Maddening they are, burning, itching,
Like a pox for too much evil done,
Signs of a corrupt soul, the outer
Edges of which are beginning
To protrude through the flesh.
An
angelic face rarely equates an angelic soul.
An
angelic soul rarely equates a human being.
I
wrote these poems during my trip to West Palm Beach and Key Largo in late
January 2006. (The ‘Silver Meteor’ was
the name of the train that took me to West Palm.)
Craved
because
It a natural state
Of
innocence
To
which we long
To
return.
Let us take its
Embodiment
In
our hands,
And
we can imagine
It
is ours again.
There
are demons
In
this world,
And she’s
Numbered
Among
them.
Through her,
It
speaks to
Provoke
me,
But
my silence
Is
a show of
Strength.
I
won’t give
The
devil
The
pleasure
Of
acknowledging
Its
existence.
“Fucking
faggot,
Children
playing football
Exhibit
the legacy
Their
parents have
He
says he kills squirrels
Because
there are
Too many of them.
It’s
a shame the squirrels
Can’t
pick up rifles
And
return the favor.
“Chris,
go keep an eye on our stuff.”
Yes,
by all means, son,
Return
to your seat,
So
you don’t see your
Boozehound of a father
Getting
lit on the bottle of vodka
He’s smuggled onto the train.
Seek
yourself
Not
in others,
For
if what you seek
Is
not within,
Then
its absence
Is
a blessing.
Honey
For
those
A
mother’s love
Is
a powerfully
Vile
thing
When
corrupted.
A
mother applauds her son
For
successfully identifying
His body parts;
Yet, two minutes
Earlier,
She
was swearing
She
was about to
Beat the ever living
Shit
No
doubt,
Was
born of relief
That, in future assaults,
He shall be able
To
aid the doctors
In
identifying the bones
She
herself will break.
“Fucking
nigger! He left me!”
Racism
rises to the surface
As
the bus pulls off
And leaves the white man
In the dust.
“I’m
not hating on the drivers,
But
most of them are black,
And
that’s the problem,
Yeah,
skin color,
Always
a problem,
Just
like eye color,
Hair
color,
Religious
beliefs,
And
sexuality.
How
anyone can get by
In
this world with such
Obstacles
in
their path
Is
beyond me.
His
young trick
Is directing the old
Man's
every move.
Yes, indeed, he's
Paid a pretty price
For that pretty piece
Of flesh,
The
cost, his free will
And
the right
To
appear in public
Without
being
Humiliated.
End “Silver Meteor” Poems
When you confiscated the Oreos
With
the excuse I was
I knew the end of us
Tonight, I find myself homesick for the
Greene County back holler in which I was reared. It’s not the people I miss; it’s the land. I long to walk out the front door on the
night of a full moon, when the light is a bright enough to walk by, and stroll
in the woods or go ghost hunting on High Top Mountain. I miss hearing the song of the whippoorwill,
or reaching down and feeling the earth that belongs to your family…the earth that no
one can take from you, except your own relations.
A decade ago, my brother showed up at
our mother’s door and moved his wife and four kids into the house. It’s almost a certainty that they’ll never
leave. Yet, that land is in my blood, and tonight
it’s calling me back to a home I no longer have.
On my mother’s side of the family, my first blood ancestor to set foot on American soil was a convict transferred from England under the ‘Sessions of Gaol Delivery’ in October 1744.
My grandfather, John Burnie Roach, was shot and killed at the age of thirty two by a man who feared his rage-fueled temper. My great uncle, Lewis Roach, discovered his wife in the act of committing adultery. The adulterer ran, came upon a barbed wire fence, tried to cross it, but got hung up. My great uncle Lewis castrated the man before slitting his throat, and never served a day in jail.
My
thoughts are often as bloody as my ancestors’ deeds. It’s a curse of bad blood, which I struggle everyday to
resist.
You
always walk at night,
As though you were afraid to sleep.
What
is there to fear in dreams
That
reality, with all its horrors,
Should
prove the safer realm
For
your uneasy state of mind?
Silent
and prolonged, the loss of memory of the living for the dead commences as a
subtle dulling of the recollection of a physical form. What were once distinctly individualistic
features begin to intermingle with the faces of a thousand others encountered
in daily life. Recollection of an exact
physical form becomes elusive; what has been lost remains distant,
haunting, and, ultimately, unreachable.
Post Puberty
What gives one the distinction of being a man?
Is it the ability to fuck, to fight, to not feel?
You would think with all those things
Starting with the letter ‘f’
That being a fag would qualify you…
But I get the feeling it doesn’t.
Jersey Boy (A Swimmer’s Tale)
You’ve told me of your hate,
But little do I care.
Hold me down and slit my throat;
Don’t think I’d try and stop you.
I’ll leave this life in bliss,
Lying in your arms,
Where I’ve always longed to be.
Name Calling
If you are seen reading a book of poetry
On the city bus, then you’re called a fag.
If you think too much, you’re a fag.
If you preach peace and despise violence,
Then you’re definitely a fag.
With all those fags out there,
You’d think my sex life
Would be something other
Than non-existent.
Turret Leap
The marble on which I fall
Cold, unfeeling, soulless,
A monument of the past,
Blocking my way
Is the love I hold for you.
Instinct
Like a starved animal,
I long to eat flesh and to
Rend ligament from bone.
Is this the human condition?
Or a savage’s instincts struggling
To be free of society’s constraints?
My Fate
Down
Raging shall
I go.
For Gary M
(who tried to have me banned from photographing UVa swim meets for being gay)
Whether it should be dogs
Or homophobic swim boys,
I always blow kisses back
At things that bark at me.
On a
related note, Gary was misguided in his labeling my feelings toward the team as
lustful. Do I appreciate swimmers
for their physical forms? Without a
doubt…in the same way a tourist in Italy could appreciate the perfection of
Michelangelo’s “David”. Does
every individual who sees the statue have an overwhelming desire to drill an
orifice in the marble and have intercourse with it?
Hell no. The same rationale applies
when I’m photographing athletes. My
camera aimed at one of them isn’t a veiled invitation for him to jump into bed. The act is an appreciation
of form…of line…of physical perfection.
Some of the swimmers are living ‘Davids’…and just as
someone, male or female, heterosexual or homosexual, would take a photograph of
the inanimate statue as an act of appreciation…so I take photos of the male
swimmers. It’s just that…an act
of appreciation.
A
closing note for any other swimmer I have photographed who has a problem with my
homosexuality, cum is cum, dick is dick, and
I’ve had my fair share of both, thank you very much.
No matter how perfectly you have molded your flesh, it all tastes the same,
disgusting, and I’d rather have a pint of coconut sorbet any day. So
don't flatter yourselves into thinking I want to lead you to my bed just because
I'm pointing my camera at you.