Sonnet on Sucking and Biting

There are certain things that a man should not bite.

There is satisfaction in: sucking on your own bruises,
sucking on the fat part of your arm, sticking your head
between your legs and sucking on your thighs, sucking
on the backs of your hands until they bruise; finding
all of the places where your skin is falsetto; where its voice
peaks and cracks. My skin is a feedback loop.

My skin is manipulated for effect: I realized something
about what my skin was asking for. Stated in code for effect:

I bit my tongue and it bled. There are certain things
that a man should not bite: his own thorns, the cork
of wine bottles, anything that he does not explicitly own,
anything that is too different from himself; assuming he is
not also able to chew it. chew it. chew it. and let it in.

Sonnet 3

I’ve got a new home now : one with plenty of men
but no father: one with light tricks like phantoms: 
here I am fucked
nightly by ghosts. They slide away when the light is full;
slither back. They are what or who I like to fuck.
They are something I can only see by mistake. 

I am stories above everything known : i am lightning rod /
I am load-bearing : Boston ancient : snow falling up.

There are doe-white suns up here that I cannot share. 
Not with the men or the ghosts or my father, 

I am wondering who will melt me here : this time :
Am I Icarus? Will I dare? I am close enough
to reach / but I will settle for only blushes of light : for hosts
who will treat me like a guest here : for ghosts.

Poem on Hospital Wifi

Biggg expansion of my sonnet from a few months ago. super personal but it’s pretty honest and thats why i’m posting it. TW for fam trauma and daddy issues heyyy;

Read More

Boy Spit

I practice my signature like a child spitting
his name on the wood-bark and the lawn
one-billion times a boy but never enough
to word it quite so well : with the force of spit

I spit and trade spit : it is a magic thing;
A thing I dream of. A boy’s spit, well, it is his weapon
before he has arms to speak of or some
small hell to raise.    To want to be wrapped
in the arms of boys and to seek their spit;
their signature, is an abandonment of your

own : it is crossing out your own name : it is
dreaming of someone who looks just like you
covered in wood-bark and grass shit : I sit here
with a page full of my names and there is ink left in the pen.

[Short-term plan:]

Short-term plan: 

Before I even tell you what it is, I’ll tell you that I’m going to blame my father when it all goes south.

At a 7-11 somewhere in Boston : the one behind City Place where the junkified and moon-eyed go to get glared at, picking up ¢25 blow pops and Swisher Sweets: your favorite flavor. He : man-behind-the-counter is who will sell me my first pack of cigarettes / I will research them, carefully: my mother taught me to be that kind of shopper. I will ask for them like I’ve seen my father ask for them : with a becoming shyness dribbling out of a layer of bravado : he knows that he’s got heart disease and shouldn’t be doing this but he’s paying with cash so it’s almost like not buying it at all : I will pay with cash. I will smoke them like he smoke(d) them : with my ring-finger twitching and my eyes half-closed. I will smoke them while I talk on the phone with him, lucky-to-be-alive, you cannot feel or smell a man’s breath between 3,000 miles of Americana : too many confusing scents. I will smoke them and lie through my yellow-teeth about how old I was when I started smoking them. I will smoke them while I look fucking-cool, flirting at the fat college girls with pink hair and at the rows of beautiful college twinks with their winter coats : lined up on Boylston like little reminders or like little asprins : all of these things will be secrets. Down to the lint at the bottom of the pocket I keep myself in. If they are revealed : I will somehow tell my mother that I [simply] learn from the best and I will tear them up and toss them in the toilet. All that organic and tar will float there like sin-on-ice. I know that smell..