The oxygen tank follows John down the hospital tunnel
a seahorse engaged to his lover, the lover leans in ~
the same seahorse near to him during his days on the streets
chashing whores. His hands behind his back eyes downcast,
women and men unable to resist his thinness, his scent.
Sometimes John feels like a tear on the cracked skin of his mama's
face, slipping in and out of crevices, his sensitive skin burning purple.
His dad was right "you are a sissy, who'll die a thousand times a day."
John was born on Sunday, the lord's day so says mama
maybe that explains why he needs whores to crucify him
bound into the shape of a human letter t. They are not loyal,
only Mia, an older streeter who wears lipstick redder than blood.
and his Pablo, another kid like John, his three-way partner. John
enjoys kissing him better than any woman...'cause Pablo doesn't
demand, is as still and obedient as a tiny catholic girl, praying on
her bed. simple and yeilding, softer than any female's breasts.
Pablo's gone now. Quick, just slept his days away.
John is broken. Longs for a passion. He gets a ribbon tattoo
thinks he will come out of the closet wearing his little red
t- shirt and just himself. At last.
Hi. I've been re-editing this poem since 2007.