Animal Breath
Jarrod Lacy
The craziness comes in lightning increments,
hard-headed memories chuck pieces of
wrecks in and out of you.
Here you are a boy again too quiet for even
a handshake to make an exchange
and grow into a company.
You were manageable despite those whispering
buzzes of energy that urged you to risk a
kiss from one of the funniest guys in high
school, old Beaman, who was squinched-faced
cute and looked about high and invited your
backside near his corn-fed thigh.
Everyone is a wolverine; everyone is diseased.
You've grown and sometimes afflicted by
mental whizzes warping and whipping you
stagnant and stolid, but when those days
moons give off unlikely blues, your mind kicks
and mouth overruns to go on a ripping tour
to kill the beast of boredom and howl with the
others who're brilliant when out of order.
Getting Crushes Watching Dirty Movies
Jarrod Lacy
Looking back,
it's no surprise that they
were mostly white.
David Ashfield's boyish appeal.
Paul Morgan always got um.
Chris Stone played it so real.
Joey Stefano was the fiery bottom.
No history lesson needed here
on who dominates all the
corners when it comes to
viewing.
They were each met at night, glowed
in an electric box and accommodated
all of my hot spots.
In a room where peace was equal to
its clean sum, it harbored a libido
that was ignorant of conundrums.
All of them hinted at an alternate
life thinned with a blindfold sheath
sheer and hazy defining fantasies.
They gave me what moon admiration
couldn't.
There wasn't enough of fine-ass Gene
Lamar, Randy Cochran, the cocoa coitus
major himself, delicious Jack Simmons,
ultra-strong Bobby Blake, sweet Rick
Pantera because my choices had to be
a roadrunner drunk on lightspeed at
Adult Video.
I wanted to meld with and magnify
my melanin beside my pretend brothers
of brothers in and with brothers drawn
as a line of dream lovers, trade on desire's
wave of travel and join in turn with
each of them and many others.
There was a wreck in my patience and
confidence back then.
Before the brown paper wrap in the mail
was an option, I had to go for a quick grab
off the shelf instead of waiting with ease for
a package from Van Nuys or San Fernando
Valley where the sun and body heat could
make babies.
The freeze of fear nagged discovery and was
the first cue in my queue of shame to dash
from any sound, or worse, a face was that
could tackle too much of those familiarities.
(Man, I hated that the cashier carded me for
identification)
My choices were compilations, hoping to get
a heads up on more of my like me's because
there was no variety, no real section where
brown and deep brown so sexy were boxed
and somewhere in there waiting around for
my hand that was always horned up and shaky.
Nah! It was more of the same, but they
managed to make the junk end its stress
of tight and jittery misery.
Danny Sommers increased my vulnerability?
Corey Monroe was a walking chub.
All of Chad Knight ended my prudish stability.
Drew Andrews was thick as a shrub.
Oh, and Tad Garrett was a barely-there Adonis.
That Brett Winters was worthy of his sexy fame.
Dallas Reeves tickled temptation. He was on us.
Whew! The hot Kurt who has Joey's last name.
So long and goodnight Johnny Rahm - wished
you could have stayed, but the bronze men, my
kin of lusciousness, those Salisbury brown men,
where were they?
Luck was enough of lust yesterday longing for
bones the color of branches, and seeing them
in their drawers and well-fitting sweats was
a luxury pounding the hell out me beyond
thousands of tens.
I bet TJ Swan was a lot of fun with or without his
friends.