That man there has vouched for my fuckability.
He’s credible. He has a Ph.D. My source tells me
that men defenestrate themselves from Grindr windows
onto him, that they drop like /r/s in the South.
He wipes his mouth with them. Here is where I imagine
him stuffing himself with over-ripe peaches,
until he smiles like a full child, juice on his chin.
He is drinking his lovers like a Capri-Sun, squeezing them
from the bottom up. His lovers are the discarded juice bag.
His lovers are the discarded Kleenex he uses to wipe his mouth.
I am not about to squeezed.
I am not about to help little boys tidy themselves up.
That man there wants some dick and the end of “Late Capitalism.”
He’ll tell you all about it if you buy him a drink.
There must be a different bar for saucy gay socialist minxes
of the Jacobin-reading variety. There must be a dive
for the pink in the spirit to redistribute their favors
in a way that doesn’t alienate them from themselves.
If it were in LA, I’d go there.
I’d hope that you wouldn’t have to pay $15 for a cocktail,
but I wouldn’t hold my breath for it.
That man there is here to cry off the edge of the balcony.
He shouldn’t have had a fifth.
Nothing good comes from a fifth glass of wine,
you down it and it brings you up
to a place of particular disclosure
to unparticular people.
This bucket down and the tears come sloshing out of it,
blessing the guys in the line below.
I’ve got my hand on his back in a gesture that says “comfort,”
and my eyes rolled back in a position that says “Kill me, God.”
I feel an urge to order my fifth glass of wine.