Oh, Amorous Shepherd!
This Conqueror bows down to his weakness.
My deepest imagination is a boy in bloom.
Across the waters, I’ve glimpsed the you
Who will bring me closer to ancient battlefields.
Search not for me, Love.
I’ve seen Allah’s frown, and will
Conspire to meet my beau,
will Tickle and Suck.
in this mutual flesh quest.
Leaves me wanting Shiva to catch Vishnu.
I want Shiva and Vishnu to embrace again as much as I want you to
Savagely expose Willy Laury's loneliness.
Oh Goliath, scorn me, if you must. But do please chase me.
I feel the power of Big Pretty leaning into the mountain stroke.
Egoists do the mating dance any which way they can.
These poems make me desire you to suck my Adam’s apple.
What could be sexier than your "Tenor"?
Thank you for inviting me into the privacy of your moan.
Your hands are an erotic poem.
Here, this room, is the universe—we, its ecstatics.
We agree it’s okay to pray for boys panting in your bed,
and the neighbors will praise the
unmuffled sounds of rapture.
Your poem “Pinyan” gives the reader space to contemplate
the Enumclaw horse sex case without
You give a reader the ecstatic vision of horse and rider as One.
We eavesdrop on Frederico Garcia Lorca speaking to his muse
and journey with Mariners and delivery boys.
You introduce me to Francisco Bosch
Who could have been the Eromenos of Alexander the Great;
his beauty serves, pays homage to fantasies.
If you are lovesick, dear, know that I am here --
A man trapped in a woman’s body.
Inside me, a boy in bloom awaits you
and your skills at Analingus
No shame in that!
My inner blooming boy child has a smooth, brown backside.
You guide me to discover him.
He’s a dancer who wouldn't give a flying fig
if he were to be exploited
by soldiers in the absence of women.
Would you allow me to introduce you to
The mother within you
The mother who always already commands in silence?
Oh, and please tell Venus Thrash I admire her smooth, and I desire she smooth me and Daddy me.
Ignore the gossip. I want to read every book you’ve stored inside your head.
We’ll break curfew and play with all we find inside Constantin Brancusi’s toolbox
We’ll sculpt all that we see stretch naked in winter light.
Do you want to hear a story of the first time I saw an erection that was not my own?
We removed our black skinny-jeans. We stood naked in an urban pasture.
I could smell his pulse.
I could smell his pulse.
We left the sheep alone and escaped to night the night.
Sita and Durga, dressed in Italian suits, are solving equations and practicing sissy Kung Fu.
Anarchy and Poetry are lovers who walk with
elusive muses who are not speaking to you because they’re making love
in the afternoon, like you do with your boy in that steamy apartment you don’t own.
Meanwhile, I go shopping for boots with Lawrence King. Yes. His ghost wears go-goes.
Let’s sew a lolita gown for Achilles.
In your city, a dead haberdasher tips his hat to me
then shows me the nightside of joy.
I turn to him and to you.
I say, our future, not yet deep,
Mister Micheaux, your poems sit upon my nightstand, so I can fall asleep
to the sound of your loud love.