recipe found in a winter boot

hurtle the cake. 

hurdle the grave. 

tell the smallest dog 

your smelliest you. 

erase the hand erasing 

the mouth. move to a distant 

memory with your worst 

marginalia. or favorite

cousin. journal about it.

type up

your review of the year’s 

first snow: a predictably 

thrilling sequel 

to what the leaves, 

not too long ago, said.

then, kiss the snow. 

pick up a heaping 

handful & smooch it. 

feel the snow 

give you smoochies back. 

listen to it. listen 

close. the snow. 

each fluttering little note of it 

saying, kiss me 

& kiss me 

here & here.

Note: For optimal formatting of these poems, we suggest reading them on a desktop or through this PDF.

ode to completion & then some

tonight, i am the worst queer—i hate longing, detest 

                                                              yearning. right now, i am the worst queer

               poet—i don’t want

                       any synonym for want, any 

                       sinfully great lyric ache. i don’t want to read or write a single 

                                    beautiful description 

        of distance. no. 

i will have sex. i will have

                          close, verbal,

     smelly, emotional sex. i will have hotter than a faggy volcano’s 

             smutty novel sex. & fuck, 

                                  if i can’t have it with someone, i’ll have my way 

with me. in fact, i’m already

                                   precumming. i’m leaking right into my left hand— 

                                                                                               my nondominant hand’s 

                               powered up, & i’m going. i’m upping the speed,  

                                

                frothing myself forth. i’m getting real friendly 

      with my foreskin, leaving every lack 

         behind. i’m loving on 

                                   & in my behind. my right pointer’s voyaged 

                                 far up my twitchy hole, my hairy legs are raised in the me-scented 

air, the whole room’s fragranced by butt 

                                                       & balls, & i’m watching it all in the full-length mirror. 

                                        this creature 

      so interested in his own nature. this researcher, studying 

           & collecting data on his pleasure. 

      i’m at play, i’m the project, i’m both animals

                                        breathing hard.  

i’m breath & both hands working hard. i’m hard, i’m hard, i’m my pleasure
                                        pleasing me. i’m my hole, my cock, i’m my cock, my cock, 

           i’m cock & hole, i’m hole & hole, my cock i’m fuck i’m going to 

take a break. let my body say, what. god. agh. 

                            & squirm a bit

                            while i take some giggly sips from my nightstand water. 

                                                                                    while i sigh, delighted. 

                      let my body, impatient, exhale into a fuller  

abundance. this moment

                                   not about vexed want, knotted 

                                                              waiting but a true, green

                     resting. & just a different breath. 

& then i’m set. ready & well-hydrated. one drooly 

                hand twisting a nipple, the other

  droolier hand on my cock. a simpler arrangement 

                                                 than earlier, but no less kinetic a combo for this 

          late-night, night-long show. 

                               sweaty & slow, slow & silly, i’m building 

                                                  up to it seriously slow. 

                          until i can’t. i catch my face in the mirror,

                                                                                 my unpretty grin, the honestly ugly 

fun i’m having. look, i don’t need to be stunning,

                                                                 don’t need a thing, not a fuck fuck i’m

                                                        cumming, it’s hitting my neck, 

                                                                                           my face, it’s in my mouth, i’m 

                                                                               dripping from my lips, 

                                                        i’ve got cum-breath, a cum-stache, & i’m grabbing 

                           

      pics. sending them from my phone 

                        to my soul. 

                                           & sometime later, 

      my soul is cuddling my finally 

                                            soft cock. they’re glowing, still, in the stinky bask 

                    of each other. & my soul’s nuzzling close, closer than ever to my cock, 

                       while my cock, already a touch 

                                  recharged, says, hey, 

            do you know the term “philatelist”? i just learned this.

                                               a philatelist is one who collects &/or studies 

                                                  postal stamps. philatelist, one who practices 

philately—doesn’t that sound 

                                       kind of like flatulence, 

                                           a bit like fellatio? oh,

                                                                             i bet it comes from french—

                                                          why don’t we look it up? 

& my soul is nodding

off, he’s starting to make a sound not 

                                                       unlike flatulence—& loud. but sort of sweet 

              to those who like him. 

                                                             mm, says my cock, you’re singing 

                                                             your songs again.

Postsolsticemoodism

When did they show up, the not so little 

hairs on my knee? 

Do you, too, have a news anchor 

voice going going in your head

whenever you read the back of the cereal box?

Isn’t it literature, the gatorade she left in the other room 

the other day? 

Hasn’t he sensed the needs of a tree, his favorite oak, at least? 

Aren’t we in the traveling part of summer? 

How did I stop listening to my need to be high up in a tree, 

in any 

height of tree, in it, at least? 

How are you? 

(Staying out of trouble?)

(Keeping a bee?)

Don’t you tell me a claw sandwich 

doesn’t sound better 

than a finger sandwich, you wouldn’t dare, would you? 

If we were to slither now, hither would we go?

Corresponding with the Heterosexuals

Hi, enthused teacher or bewildered student 

or concerned parent! 

Thank you for emailing out of the blue or

as the French say, out of the bleu. 

To answer your urgent & original question, 

I am not inspired, ever. 

I write just so you will assign/do/

help with—while disapproving of—

all this homework 

about me 

& grow up 

or finally be well-adjusted, capable 

of taking out the recycling 

on a semi-regular basis while talking to your 

semi-handsome neighbor 

who’s sitting outside. Ah, the fresh air 

becoming hotter & oranger by the minute. 

Oh, that’s not a gay thing, 

sorry, that’s a planet in deep 

doo-doo thing. 

To answer your less urgent & unoriginal question, yes. 

Your dreams will die & so 

will you. But if you’re lucky, you’ll go first. 

Meanwhile, someone in Switzerland 

is sending their very first email,

now isn’t that a sight for sore eyes. Oh, 

a cliché! Quick, let’s revise. Now isn’t that 

a kite for sore lives. Much better, n’est-ce pas? Sorry, 

I know French 

is filth & the gayest of langues. & now 

I must go feed my second pug, Symposium. 

Yup, that’s a Plato thing. 

Oui, that’s a gay thing, 

so sorry. Désolé. Je suis vraiment, 

vachement désolé.

Quintessence: the Soul (If It Exists)

     Ajar. 

Aloft. Afar, afoot. Ashore, 

     atop. Aflutter, 

ajar, sometimes a lot. 

     Then amuck, 

     adrift. Afire. 

Awryly aflame. Asunder, 

     afucked. & closed

up, or is it down. Sometimes 

     for a year, 

     years. Then 

afloat, aloft, ajarred afresh. 

     Anewer aglow. 

Astride atrue, across aflew, 

     awhoevenknew:

     something in you 

so never closed, forever fucking  

     abloom, in fact, 

even while amiss, adoom. 

     Unasleep, even 

     amidst the dullest 

miseries. Who knew—this life, 

     this alive. Agog, 

agod. Awash with vowel & you, 

     committed to 

     comma & 

not yet, or sure, period, but then 

     right away up 

to go alltheway down. To stumble 

     allaround for a 

     

     letter, another.

recipe for courage with a side of hot

increase your daily chapstick application by fifteen 

hundred percent.

practice your kinkiest sex 

on your frown-frumpiest days. 

retreat for at least an hour every night  

to be with your butt-soft, ass-tough poems.

apply ever more of your heart

to your mouth—

but don’t forget speaking 

is only one form of loving.

if one cat sweater doesn’t suffice, don 

on top of it another, larger, 

sweaterier cat sweater.

remember that a synonym for your heart 

is total babe. 

remember that the moon shares 

that synonym. 

wonder aloud on a park bench in a busy park, 

is this poem too moony, 

too self-helpy? 

           accept help 

beyond yourself. admit you were wrong 

about how good the burgers were at that one place, 

they only tasted that good to you 

because you were utterly 

magnificently stoned. 

say the word “vestibule” 

five times fast.  

for a week, say to everyone you meet, yes i now 

spell my name “chanel,”

no it’s still pronounced “chen,” 

            yeah if you don’t get that, i hate you. 

listen to the pomegranate 

on the kitchen counter say, you think you know 

what a fruit is. you haven’t the foggiest! 

become alive

enough to live 

your pomegranate faggotries. 

understand that your slutty love for words

isn’t always a lovely sluttiness 

for truth. recognize that sometimes 

& sometimes often 

another synonym for your heart 

is undeniable asshole

—though undenying this is only the first step. 

store your chapsticks well. 

say lolz 

ever so slowly. be not 

only a generous lover 

but also a generous love.

know 

but don’t dwell on the mountainous 

fact that there are just slightly 

over four hundred 

thousand steps.

know, in the depths 

of total babe, that you will, some 

very december days, be poemless 

& even sweaterless, 

but never will you be kinkless.

ode to definitions

    froth would be a great name for a band 

& probably is. during the week of scheduled merry, mass mirth, 

i learned about a band people younger than myself enjoy 

              & the mirth did burst, 

                                                     the merry positively frothed 

    when i watched their latest music video. 

         how much they danced

         just with their hands! the music video 

                                                   as an art form—revived! 

during the supposedly mirth-merriest 

time of year, i was not ready to shed my supposings, my position of not 

         humbug exactly, 

           but kinda bah, yes. 

                                         then, this most kissable song 

     about outer space (they danced 

    in their spacesuits!). then, i looked up 

                               the definition of “froth”: a mass of small 

                                     bubbles caused by agitation, fermentation, or 

                                     some other thing, & otherwise 

                                                known as foam. to froth 


                                     is to cause or contain this mass of small 

                              bubbles otherwise known as foam & usually overflowing 

                                                              from a can of soda, beer, or 

                                                              soul. to foam is to be overly effusive 

about a band people younger than yourself enjoy. 

                                                                      i love definitions. 

              they don’t box me in 

                      except for all the time i’ve lived 

                     

                      in the united states of america since the age of 4. 

        (since i was 4, not since the united states of america was 4.) 

one of my brothers is turning 28 next month 

            & on the xmas family video call i said, wow. 

                                                                          wow 

                are we all getting old. & he said, yeah, that’s how time works. 

& i was both chapfallen & crestfallen, the definition for both 

       being the other. i couldn’t understand why 

       he had to be so factual. i love definitions 

but hate facts. 

               i love definitions that are forever questions 

                         due to my never remembering them, 

                                    my always looking them up 

                                or in the middle of wondering about. 

               this would also describe 

               my relationship with the spelling of “entrepreneurial.” 

   entrepreneurially speaking, holidays & 

                       most days, i am irritated. 

      my other brother turns 27 in the spring. he would be great 

      in a band, but would never 

      do that, he’s far too busy pursuing his other creative talents 

           to financial success & deep fulfillment. 

i’m proud of him, though also 

                         irritated, now that he has 

                 barely a thing to justify to our parents, 

                 maybe just his haircut. 

                                                             i’m proud of the life i’ve made 

out of words & fairly adventurous haircuts, 

            yet i’m irritated with myself 

                                  every day. i’m 

            an artist, meaning a massively small self-esteem & a love for 

                 everything minutely vast. froth, the artist formerly known 

                 as foam!—i love stuff like that. i cherish 

                                   how my boyfriend, 

        a bit older than me, said he’s closest to the tall & quiet 

                                                        one in the band, though 

                                                        even taller & quieter, 

               & i said, definitely 

               taller, but quieter (??), you’re never quiet, 

               & he said, 

                                   fuck you, i am 8 foot 4 & have never spoken a word. 

my favorite definition of mirth, 

      which happens to be the main one, is gladness or gaiety 

      as shown by or accompanied with laughter. 

                                                                                      gaiety! 

                  can you guess why i love that definition? yes, i am 

                                queer as in fuck you, but i am also gay 

                                as in i don’t know 

                  how to live in this world or why i should 

& isn’t that fun. 

little bubbles full of feeling.

                       the holidays—do you ever wish there were more & better

                       gay holiday movies? do you ever watch a gay movie

                                                              because you are gay 

              & looking for yourself, then looking for other gays, 

then looking for yourself, again?

         do you ever watch a gay movie & find yourself 

              happy, even 

              mirthful, frothing with 

         yay, gaiety? only for the ending 

                              to be um, utterly ruinous? 

          do you ever watch yourself 

               being gay as in person turning 

35 & the guinness world record holder

                for most consecutive nights spent tearful by a scented candle? 

                i’m not answering that, but thank you for asking.