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