by Greg Baysans

Home

Poet X

Back

 
Another evening 
	wasted at the bars. 
		I could have been home 
writing poetry. 
	I saw a man 
		with delicate 
macho features, 
	I watched him 
		walk away. 
I kept thinking, 
	"Here I am a 
		pluckable 
gay consciousness 
	with no 
		one beside me." 
It's now 
	I want to 
		cry. 
Night wasted, unlike 
	last night wasted; 
		I sucked 
two cocks, 
	one was beautiful, 
		one was sufficient. 
The sleeziest 
	evening-come-morning 
		I've had? 
done? 
	wasted? 
		in a long time. 
Tonight 
	I'm still 
		lonely. 
The man I want 
	has become 
		need. 
Shoulders aching. 
	There's a clash 
		between 
seeing someone 
	who is 
		ideal 
and seeing 
	a former 
		trick; 
there's a clash 
	between seeing 
		simpatico 
and seeing 
	someone who'd do. 
		In a click 
of the clock 
	night is over 
		and those 
alone 
	go home 
		alone, 
those enduring 
	go to 
		enduring places. 
Damn. 
	Damn him. 
		Damn 
time which takes 
	itself for granted. 
		Damn 
asinine regulations, 
	bizarre equations, 
		the solid wall 
between strangers 
	who are and aren't 
		strangers. 
Stranger, are you 
	aware of your beauty 
		unique (aware of my 
need? I clear rooms 
	with my 
		quicksand emotion)? 
Stranger, 
	would one word 
		inspire more, 
which of two walls 
	shall we try 
		to jump? 
Stranger, you, bearded, 
	don't 
		belong in my poem, 
we did not connect, 
	never will. 
		Stop, 
wrenching heart. 
	Anticipation 
		poisons. But my 
heart, my hands, 
	my empty 
		arms. 
This winter 
	becomes spring 
		without notice.