Each night, too excited for sleep, I escape.
The car shifts into first, second, first again, and then park. I arrive and I am arrived.
It is landscapes and weather and vegetation as much as bodies. It is a second home.
I’m due for a moist trembling emotion, don’t you think?
The night covers my face, as anonymity turns to flesh.
The only light comes from the stars, glimmering like engagement rings that will stay in their boxes.
There is no choice but to salivate in the wings.
The hustler is a lifesaver in a world where silence equals death.
I find a street Adonis. He can turn Caravaggio into a bored pornographer, as far as I can tell.
It is all in my head anyway. We twitch like a nerve.
We fall into the grass; the flowers are our ambulances, shrieking violets, knowing our pain.
He shifts and opens into iconography, as I inhale and my heart relaxes.
The alkyl nitrites turn him into an exotic Christmas tree. I unwrap him.
My genitals are bounded and bandaged, wrapped like a mummy. I know better.
I kiss and multiply. I advanced and I am advanced. I motor.
The stimulation tears at my heart and breaks it. My petit mort spreads and infects.
For several minutes the boy lays there, not realizing that man above and in him is that of a dead man.
He is not a participant, but a survivor.
This is a game where everyone loses.