Poetry — February 2, 2016 12:08 — 0 Comments

Three Poems – Dave Wheeler

American Voyeur Story

All my screens glow
tonight: trying
to keep up with Ryan
Murphy’s new product,
while eying my ruddy
neighbor tending toilette
across the way,
my mind compromised
by lust left untied,
cries for bright asylum
from the comfort of
my bed. Bootlegged
episodes stream
as I follow memes,
hashtags, window
dressing, window
again, and noting
ideas for a new poem
I want to call
Zachary Quinto
but won’t; his name
tastes too dangerous,
like urgent secrets
whispered during
climax. Besides,
the neighbor’s lights
are out, and Evan Peters’s
in his briefs again.
And so am I,
describing crimes
I’ll never commit,
in hopes I’ll convince
whoever reads this
I’m ahead of the game—
just the internet, the vain,
me and Jessica Lange.


I Have Made Men
with a line from Robert Frost

Bruise just below where the collar bends,
You little missive to future tawdry tricks–
I’ll remember you if
you show me yours.

Don’t make it about sex if all you want is sex.
Just give me your cock if it’s your heart
That is an irresistible desire
to be irresistibly desired.

Both ways is the way I want what you might
Offer in exchange for my bright violet kiss–
What you meant
to me
if it’s any consolation.


[…] falls for a second time

I have come / to inhabit this faggot / by which I mean body / by which I mean hunger / twiggy argot stations of the cross / a cruciate fugue state / karaoke bloodhound / baying down clairvoyant noise / blue boys sing sweetest / onstage out of bounds / can I put words in your mouth? / scotch drams, sugar, dance / go-go ghost bemused / by how I remind you / of a man


Dave Wheeler's debut poetry collection, Contingency Plans, was published by TS Poetry Press. He has written for The Morning News, The Gay & Lesbian Review, Glitterwolf, The James Franco Review, The Cossack Review, and others. He earned his BA in Creative Writing from Western Washington University and is associate editor for Shelf Awareness in Seattle.

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney