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I’m with you,
I’m without when not.

That’s how much you’ve become.
Plastered fabric enmeshed into me.
Like drywall, yet to crack, but firm and white.

Bare bones make us who we are.
I can feel yours now, I think.

The way you flick your heel as you step forward, pounce-like with nonchalant-yet-Russian-level-ballet.

Had I been 18 when we met I’d have thought you “too gay”.

That’s what I get for being born into a place that creates fake versions of us on the television.

Decades of endless tropes, tropical flamingos standing with an over-confident leg shoved straight through the mud.

Anyway(s), when I met you, I thought that. 

The first word I said was “privyet”,
since Irina and Sergey taught me how.

I was proud.

You could definitely not tell.

Your eyeballs looked at the “what the f is that” spot* so I could tell.

* Bottom corners of eyes with a dramatic frown. 

You said “privyet” too, then went to bed because of that horrible time preceding. I told you New York was gross below the upper part.

Since then,
I’ve seen you every day.

Since then,
I’ve known what happiness is.

Waking up and wanting to.
Smelling frothy sweet you in my nostrils, on my pillowcase.

I sweat too much, and it’s a problem.
I’m sorry for that, I think it’s Parkinson’s.
Am I paranoid?

Back to the plaster:

I’m with you,
I’m without when not.

The other side of doors is mostly you,
Portals, use a portkey, or a flu,
Stories are enabled in my clues,
Whether watched by eye or diagonal avenues.

I’ve lengthened this poem because I forgot the theme, the motivating muse:

Whether you and I, as gay, are any use.

We won’t pass on in genes,
Though we both have great jeans.

Sex with you doesn’t bring people, only hope.

Hope for happy.

Hope that everything I am isn’t the blasphemy shoved down my esophagus by institutions perpetuating systematic molestation and rape.

Yet I’m the sinner. 

Yet my people are they who bring the Devil.

We, who love and connect with everyone.

We, who are forced into shadows for fear of light.

We, who literally help prevent the world’s population from exploding, you nasty straight twits.

Anyway(s)

What do we pass on?
You and I?
Is it We?

There is no She,
So there can’t be a He+She=She/He in the works. Just a He+He=2He.

What should we leave, if not just pieces of ourselves in animation?

All I know is that I love you, and that’s enough for me.








Again for Danny May 6 2023
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