Thirteen: Fragments

Fucking a jock would be exotic, pumping
Muscles and penis at the art studio,
Stealing moments with strangers, paying
For someone to touch you. (Butthole
Costs a lot.) My generation invented
This culture: exhibitionists without
Pictures, men destined for greatness as
Graphic designers exiting in plaid, depressing
Single-person fondue as sad as a couple
Holding each other at a shitty concert.
Now a minor motion picture.
I just like holding something in my hands
That’s not my dick. Fuck the internet;
Ask me the password to my heart. My best
Memories are of things that never happened:
A boyfriend who uses his penis as
A bookmark, a soap opera without
Antagonism, the beholder of my beauty, yes
To everything that is being with you, a love
So big it cannot be consumed and as silent
As a power outage. We all but stand
At the edge of a cliff, forever torn between
Our ass and our heart, running into people
We had sex with, getting over them
By looking through their Facebook, taking
Pictures of strangers and putting them on
Instagram to pretend we’re not alone, liking
Ourselves if only on Twitter, trying to find
Oprah in a sea of dicks. Like Steven Seagal
At his sexiest, love will not be denied, even
Though it is silence: a sound I cannot
Hear. I have had so many almost moments
In my life, trying really hard not to look
At your body, passport open to picture
Page, remembering why I never wear
That cock ring, trying to err on the side
Of love, seeing your muscles from here.
If you want to know love, always keep it
Out of sight.

---