Everyone needs a genie and a lamp.
Ancient red handprints in a hard-to-get-to cave.
A wireless charger for their liver
after years of heedless drinking.
Also, not to dematerialize before seeing Venice,
which itself may soon dematerialize
beneath the Adriatic. Upstairs, my brother
bangs the supper dishes. My wish
is to be too drunk to think
about the sermon at the funeral mass,
the priest mumbling no one knew what,
or the coffin fed into the back of the hearse
and driven off with another brother’s body
while his widow went to pieces on the curb.
According to the internet, there are three things
a genie can’t do: no granting the wish for more wishes.
No bringing back the dead. For that,
you’ve got religion. Also, no making someone fall
in love with you. Luckily there are potions,
even if they’re bad for your digestion. I wish
my friend had never been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.
That we still lived together in that house
among the trees. I’d like to go there now
on a magically self-cleaning carpet
for when my dying cat throws up again,
and grieve.

was no consolation to the woman
whose husband was strung out on opioids.

Gone to a better place: useless and suspect intel
for the couple at their daughter’s funeral

though there are better places to be
than a freezing church in February, standing

before a casket with a princess motif. 
Some moments can’t be eased

and it’s no good offering clichés like stale
meat to a tiger with a taste for human suffering.

When I hear the word miracle I want to throw up
on a platter of deviled eggs. Everything happens

for a reason: more good tidings someone will try
to trepan your skull to insert. When fire

inhales your house, you don’t care what the haiku says
about seeing the rising moon. You want

an avalanche to bury you. You want to lie down
under a slab of snow, dumb as a jarred

sideshow embryo. What a circus.
The tents dismantled, the train moving on,

always moving, starting slow and gaining speed,
taking you where you never wanted to go.

For Stella

I dreamt we were already there.
Some things were right
and some were not.

And somehow Tuesday
was Wednesday
was Monday again.

I slept then woke
and then fell asleep again
and when I slept again

I dreamt we were already there.
Things were right some
and were some not.

My father died yesterday, she said.
Yesterday, some things were and.
Today some are not.

I had no idea that the gate I would step through 
to finally enter this world 

would be the space my brother’s body made. He was 
a little taller than me: a young man 

but grown, himself by then, 
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet, 

rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold 
and running water. 

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me. 
And I’d say, What? 

And he’d say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich. 
And I’d say, What? 

And he’d say, This, sort of looking around. 

^{—after Ted Berrigan}

Floss my throat
                        wash my feet then glower
kiss Curtis at 7:30
                        to shake him
feed Kitty
            philosophical tenders
stroll the valley
                        of dearth to Journal Square
keep faith like a Benedictine
                                    under the Hudson

Work like a yo-yo
                        nap like a bear
address endless emails
                        to forgotten writers
jack the meter
            to stand tall
drink lust as if 
                        it were spring water
walk through the Mews
            when the coast is near
leave my friends and shadows
                        generous margins for error

August, one of those evenings I walked
the long way home, over the Harvard Bridge,
your image dissolving sweetly like a lozenge
on my tongue. This friendship, I reminded
myself, is everything but wrong.

In like with, not in love with: you.
I already had somebody, what else is there
to do? Suffer, and let the river air it out.
Like a spectator I hovered at the balustrade,
waiting for an early evening regatta,

bright sails, black keels cutting
beneath the railing, turning me
from my yearning, steeling my reeling
mind. Below, breezes herringboned
the rusty water, rush hour traffic knotted behind

me at the center of the bridge. These and other observations
I jotted in my journal, remembering your dark
fingers around my own like riggings, our calls,
brief torrents, anchoring my afternoons. Can I think
through your absence now, in words

as ungainly as these: Institute, 364.4 Smoots, abandoned band shell,
deleted emails, KS, Acyclovir? That night I stalled, not wanting to reach
Boylston, buy books and wine and candy and circle like a gull above
feeling. I stood there, as I sit here now, watching the red-brick
beacons beckoning dimming, like all desires, and loss itself, to mere horizon.

What if we got a gun? I whispered
from my pillow to you on yours.
I’m so against it in theory, I continued,
but in practice, & these days …
                        Then I burst, became
a wave of laughter, & you joined me.
We were a tidal giggle. & then I felt a huge
wobble, some cosmic shudders, perhaps from
a god with skin problems
unresolved from adolescence.
Unreleased from adolescence,
childhood, I saw how I was spiritually
still in uncomfortable overalls & overall over
none of it.
             You too, it seemed, as what you
then said was, What if
I became a bodybuilder? You said,
you spoke this to me
at normal volume like it was regular info,
like we were at Planet Fitness or in Galaxy
Muscle, not in our bedroom, our bed.
What if, you said, I bodybuilt so good,
so Arnold, to the point of the world turning
totally unhomophobic? Not
a speck of homophobia left, not one
subatomic particle a miserable
homophobe, the whole damn globe,
amazing, right?
             & I said, Or I could become a stronger
writer, more cutting
in my musings, more ferocious
in my music?
In bed, in response, you looked at me
fondly, probably the fondest
you’ve ever looked at me, & said, Baby.
You will. But how about we do both?

Both? I asked. Writing & bodybuilding?
Writing, you said, & the gun.

not back, let’s not come back, let’s go by the speed of 
queer zest & stay up 
there & get ourselves a little 
moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden 

with lots of moon veggies (so healthy), i mean 
i was already moonlighting 
as an online moonologist 
most weekends, so this is the immensely 

logical next step, are you 
packing your bags yet, don’t forget your 
sailor moon jean jacket, let’s wear 
our sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter, 

queerer moon gravity, let’s love each other 
(so good) on the moon, let’s love 
the moon        
on the moon

What was unforeseen is now a bird orbiting this field.

What wasn’t a possibility is present in our arms.

It shall be and it begins with you.

Our often-misunderstood kind of love deems dangerous.
How it frightens and confounds and enrages.
How strange, unfamiliar.

Our love carries all those and the contrary.
It is most incandescent.

So, I vow to be brave.
Clear a path through jungles of shame and doubt and fear.
I’m done with silence. I proclaim.

It shall be and it sings from within.

Truly we are enraptured
With Whitmanesque urge and urgency.

I vow to love in all seasons.
When you’re summer, I’m watermelon balled up in a sky-blue bowl.
When I’m autumn, you’re foliage ablaze in New England.
When in winter, I am the tender scarf of warm mercies.
When in spring, you are the bourgeoning buds.

I vow to love you in all places.
High plains, prairies, hills and lowlands.
In our dream-laden bed,
Cradled in the nest
Of your neck.
Deep in the plum.

It shall be and it flows with you.

We’ll leap over the waters and barbaric rooftops.

You embrace my resilient metropolis.
I adore your nourishing wilderness.

I vow to love you in primal ways.
I vow to love you in infinite forms.

In our separateness and composites.
To dust and stars and the ever after.

Intrepid travelers, lovers, and family
We have arrived.

Look. The bird has come home to roost.

and if
I were to say

I love you and
I do love you

and I say it
now and again

and again
would you say

parataxis
would you see

the world revolves
anew

its axis
you

any way you slice it i was born for a good time

some of my primary interests include pomp
circumstance
occasion
and carousing

love a kickback and a kiki
very much love a tea

weddings
graduations
meg’s monday night birthday function i stayed at waaaay too late for a monday night

i’m mariah carey on qvc repeatedly describing herself
and everything she loves as “festive”

i’m andré leon talley specifying he wear a caftan
for his cremation

my dearest ellery said he can’t remember a boring day in his life
i’m free will agnostic
but with each conscious choice toward that ethos

the need for sleep
the need to labor
two little devils strapped to my back who synergize
to ruin quality time

just rude
needy
and greedy

depending on who you ask
i’m going to hell and all my girls are too
i’m afterlife agnostic but if some kind of something comes next
what else to call it besides the afters, the very last afters

and if my girls are there with me
i’m good

we’ll know who to haunt and do it well
dressed to the nines in maggot-drenched couture

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot’s dread, fury of a blind diver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness,
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only the tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one.

This was once a love poem,
before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,
before it found itself sitting,
perplexed and a little embarrassed,
on the fender of a parked car,
while many people passed by without turning their heads.

It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.
It remembers choosing these shoes,
this scarf or tie.

Once, it drank beer for breakfast,
drifted its feet
in a river side by side with the feet of another.

Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy,
dropping its head so the hair would fall forward,
so the eyes would not be seen.

IT spoke with passion of history, of art.
It was lovely then, this poem.
Under its chin, no fold of skin softened.
Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat.
What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.
An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks.

The longing has not diminished.
Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat,
the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.

Yes, it decides:
Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.
When it finds itself disquieted
by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,
it will touch them—one, then another—
with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.

—1998

I know what my heart is like
      Since your love died:
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
      Left there by the tide,
      A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.