Glass and Steel

This glass and steel,
glint and shine,
of ingenuity and labour built--
but the purpose?

Less transparent, it seems,
nothing but a lie
with its sheen in midday sun,
blinding the world in its glory:
feminist's phallocentrism,
I wonder enveloped at Bryant Park.

That myth of an American Dream,
I cannot help but think,
standing upright as Masses
pass me by,
the only other potent image
me under Old Glory, eyes fixed
on its tattered body being whipped
unapologetically by gusts.
Still staring I cannot but wonder:
why is it so?

No, not the fact of the myth.
For me, that is all too clear,
remembering the body left
for dead on Wyoming fence,
haunting melody of Wainwright:
scarecrow, scarecrow,
stark lyrics mimicking stark
reality, no need to dress up erasure.

It seems so far in the past,
and yet so close,
fresh wounds of my own.
Just yesterday:
changed form, same message,
vitriol repackaged, as words--
laundry list of slurs
lacking cessation of breath,
but no less painful:

My own leaden tears sitting
in bed, nursing a perpetually
wounded soul, at twelve
bud already tempered by mighty frost,
new consciousness in
the wake of disconnect.

Reminded of its permanence,
I repeat the fact of myth.
Too well I know I cannot have
what others can have at a basic level,
written in law, laced in social expectation:

I am more than this, I tell myself.
Yes, I am and yet...
I am bound to this consciousness,
sexual partner inseparable from
treatment of the act.
Both blessing and curse
it cannot be undone,
unlike vision it
never loses clarity.

So why do I have to live this?
I pause for a moment, making sense
of jumbled thought as I am
greeted by something more solemn:
Why do so many endure this?
I plumb the depths of my mind
before the final question emerges
from the brambles:
why do so many miss Old Glory in tatters?

There are answers to these questions,
somewhere in this body of mine
they reside,
but looking up at skyscrapers
around Bryant Park,
they don't need to spoken.

The glory in the glint,
the wonder of the steel,
the job, the money,
promised through adorned facades:
renunciation of hope
never a thought
in light of the Dream of
quiet consciousness.

Even through deconstruction,
Dream spurious to me,
I am momentarily enraptured.
For just a second, still staring up,
wounded soul is mended,
Old Glory suddenly replaced
by giant LED version.

The sight forces me to
grab my stomach,
sudden sharp pain,
falling to the ground as my mind
seeks to slip out of consciousness
temporarily.

Even in the most potent
disavowals of the material,
the last thing I see before
waking up to an unfamiliar face
is glass and steel.
Unable to speak, heavy thoughts
are a deluge in my head:
we are doomed, we are doomed
by this glass and steel,

And all falls silent.

Without A Name

Averse to labels
we plumb the unexpected
essence of this thing--
even without a name,
absent signifier,
we exist together in comfort

At night in sweet embrace,
draped in fabric and
lacking form from outside,
knowledge of our bodies our own,
we do nothing but smile;
lithe creatures lingering, in scene
most consider phantasm.

The Blend(s)

Olive, oily skin,
calloused hands,
perfect flesh regardless of
unmistakable imperfections

I stare, longingly
I gaze at the body
Walking by, hot summer day,
Melted ice cream cones on sidewalk

Wondering when I can meet,
Lip lock contoured by carnal desire,
Sensory explosion in deep woods
While Mr. and Mrs. Smith
repeat tired heterosexuality
on Fifth Avenue.

Olive, oily skin,
Calloused hands,
For me banished
into some lonely corner,
forgotten by the Joneses,
names insignificant because of the blend,
reassertion of an already repetitious act.

I have it now,
Perfect flesh next to mine,
But we survive only in the Village,
Strolling by curiously blank statues
And black trans females
Teetering over us in three inch stilettos,
Our place, our relics, our realities
Marked by obvious erasure.

Lip lock contoured by carnal desire, we have
Our moment outside of the place
that christened a Movement.
But it does not last long.
Lingering on the present, wondering about the nights
We spent recently, abject moments alone,
Did we make any progress?
We question in thick humidity,
A ‘no’ the only certain answer
But we try to dream before

Spontaneous combustion—
we are not fit for this world—
stolen line from Amelie,
combustion of our possibilities

Replaced by haunts,
Image of his calloused hands
Dissolved into memory of
Stinging red marks from a
stepfather’s solid hand,
angry crusades against desire,
scripture re-interpreted with each slap.

Lachrymose twelve year old
Sitting on the bed nursing wounds next to
Undressed men, photos from somewhere,
Usually hidden in the secret box.
Wishing arousal would whither, away,
Out of his mind, into air, into water,
He flips the photos over, blank white
Against light blue sheets,
but nothing changes.
It never changes, he thinks,
Shame beginning to flow in, open window
On a warm spring night.

Replaced by spectres of my own,
The always-lingering heterosexual dream,
White picket fence in every frame, collapsed
on a wild lawn, mower sitting out rusted,
Discomfort intensifying as distant family asks about
Any opposites I have found away from home.
I say I am focused on my studies,
the only half truth I know that spares
me from the guilt of all-out lies

That morphs into fresh memory,
Only a month and a half old, of strolling
Down Decatur Street,
Cold winter day, blustery,
Wearing fingerless gloves and
Rainbow scarf, mark of a faggot
Of course, or I wouldn’t have been harassed.

Words, yes only words,
But random strangers,
Faces and bodies unknown to me
(no desire to turn around),
heckled me,
homo, homo, they repeated
as I continued forward, ever increasing pace,
turning a corner I wasn’t expecting,
concrete example of the queer path
bending to reproach, self and others
challenging notions of forward motion.

Reality once again,
Dreams, heap of fabric at the feet of
These experiences, new and old blended
Together, overwhelming desire for
Olive, oily skin of my companion stifled,
In the place where the closet exploded,
lip locked lovers pulled apart
For common purpose, pressing purpose:

We find the nearest bookshop,
Grabbing notebook and pen,
Sitting down, writing free flowing
Thoughts, unconcerned punctuation,
Just ideas suppressed in our erasure:
haunts we connected on—
our walk—
trans hookers wearing cheap stilettos to make buck
because of discrimination at work—
lonely nights wondering is this (motioning to lived life)
really worth it all?—
Another thought:
Where will I be in ten years from now?—
And yet another: Why do I fight?—

And so on, multiplication
With new connections formed,
Wondrous brain,
unexplained, mysterious neural pathways
that generate ideas freely,
coloured only by our own experiences
and imaginings

Quick steps down Decatur
drawn out now,
no hurry, no rush.
We write until the sun sets as
Little lamps light up and
Larger buildings glow magnificently,
A city unconcerned,
The Joneses unaware,
Repression of deconstruction
In a larger fabric,
Overly starched by discourses.

Thanks Foucault, I scribble on the page,
finally setting my pen down,
Tired mind only gazing at his calloused hands
Continuing the furious scribble I lost.
Three hundred ticks of the second hand
I gaze at the hands…
But they are not the same anymore,
Imagining red marks from past slaps,
Something more than flesh.

And from that realization
An idea ignites my tired mind.
I too am guilty of the blend.
Why did I not see it before?

With that question
He finally sets his pen down,
So? He asks simply.
So what? I reply, unsure of
What to let escape my mouth.
What do you want to do next?
The words come out so casually
I am taken aback.
Well…we…can…
Silence lingers for a long time
On the third ellipsis
Before a clear answer emerges.
How does not fucking sound?
Idea of perfect flesh lost in some other world.
Sounds good comes out—without hesitation
he goes on: I think I know what you mean.

As he grabs my hand, I feel the roughness as
We are interwoven, walking into the
Jungle night with only one expectation.