Princess

You don’t mind when I have one of those days
where I want to listen to sad songs
and cry a little, for no real reason
If you’re here, the time I see you each week
you just snuggle up to me
and put your head on my shoulder
and sometimes, you tilt your head
and look up at me with those eyes
that pierce me into my deepest parts
and tell me I”m your daddy
Your tiara is hanging on a little place on my shelf
by the door to my bedroom, I see it
every time I go out the door and remember
the time we first realized this was our true desire
to be this to each other, for you to let me
nurture and hold and care for you
in ways my heart has always desired
and those times when your skin is against mine
and you look at me again, your eyes radiant
I live somewhere between joy and tears
holding what seem on the surface to be
disparate emotions but underneath are not
my joy and sadness are merged in your touch
and your pleasure cries open me up to parts
of my life that used to be dead, now awake
from your touch and your smile and your words

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Safety

The leaves are dropping from some of my trees,
maybe heat stress, or they are confused
about the season, cause, here that’s easy.
I am confused at your ambivalence
you say we are only friends then want to go to bed
you tell me we wont talk about our relationship
but we do, you say, no contact for the weekend
when you are at a retreat and then text me.
Ambivalence is unsafe in my body.
My mother was loving and compassionate
helped poor people, volunteered in the community
and could fly into a rage and yell and slap us
and so ambivalence in a partner now lands in me
as inherently unsafe, unsafe in my body and heart
waiting for the slap or the anger even when it never comes;
the leaves are partly fallen and partly still green on my trees
and I so want to be safe with you, to draw you into my arms
every part of you becoming alive and me also, everything green.
I don’t know when that will happen.

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Accumulation

All the little griefs
of a day or a lifetime
and sometimes, other’s lifetimes
gather in my chest
and without warning, unexpectedly
my body turns them into joy

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Copal

there’s a familiar unfamiliarity between us
or perhaps it’s an unfamiliar familiarity,
the reverberation of times together;
the way you held my hand so tightly
after a long and intense joint therapy
at the end, your arms around me, you saying I love you;
later, that echo again, at dinner, then later
walking your dog, who I had missed so much,
when thinking that perhaps we were through,
realizing that in a breakup you break up with pets also
so that early in the evening, arriving to your house
when he greeted me in his total energetic exuberance,
as I was kneeling in your entry hall, holding him close
and scruffing his back as you went to dress
for a date that was not a date, picking out burrs
from his uniquely kinky fur, then, tears came, gratitude

because it wasn’t a breakup, it was something
beyond, unexpected, beautiful, unknown,
like the flower on my desert rose that hasn’t blossomed
for the 5 years I’ve had it, until this week;
like seeing you, so radiant, earlier, in our session, struggling
to bring the truth of your body into existence,
like feeling the sheer physical pleasure
of myself in alignment, of my edges being solid,
energy running up my spine, and simultaneously,
the barely defined path forward, hovering
in the space between us, fragile and unstoppable both,
something beyond the immediate past, new and old all at once
something with no label, starting to be.

Watering plants on my patio, I reach down
to the feathery leaves on my copal tree,
the miniature of the ones we saw on the mountain in Oaxaca 2 summers ago,
many small leaflets, slightly green,
aromatic, leathery; I crush a few between my fingers.
The sticky resin on my fingers, fragrant,
reminds me of afternoons in our hotel, your sap on me
the limbs of our bodies connected; we have
put this aside for now or forever, we don’t know,
the rightness of that, the truth of it in my body
shocked me out of unawareness.
Bringing my fingers to my nose, I inhale,
the fresh scent of the copal leaves greener and brighter
than that of the burning resin, tears of the gods,
that exude from the trunk when cut.

Smoke rising from the charcoal in an incense burner
is the path we are choosing, transcendent and transitory;
your radiance and bravery burned me earlier.
What was before has to die, to be burnt into new fragrance,
for me to be whole, for our connection to be completed,
to open between us something unknown
and known, completely new and older than the day we met,
where perhaps we can both, finally, be safe.

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Joy-tears

I am standing in my kitchen making dinner for a lover
and suddenly I am overcome
it’s not the onions making me cry, this is real, deep sobbing,
I’m leaning against the counter with all my weight
so I don’t fall over holding the 10″ chef knife;

My brain wants to make up a story about it,
that it’s thinking about how the lover who is coming for dinner
is talking seriously, with her husband, about moving out of the country, for good,
whether or not the narcissicist-in-chief is reelected, that the bigotry and hatred
that is so evident in our country, that was hidden before, is too much for them,
and they are going on mini-vacations over the next few years
to check out different places to possibly live and see if they could do that,
and I know if they move I will see her maybe for a while on Skype
but it will be too hard and sad for both of us and we will drift apart;

or my brain wants to take me to why I don’t have pets now,
how I had to stand there by the vet’s table while my snuggle cat Artemis
was euthanized and before that my Bubba and my Otis and my Flea
or I had to see my Ditto-cat shivering in a cage at the vet’s clinic
who fucking didn’t treat his injuries and all my rage couldn’t reverse
what that asshole vet did fully on purpose to try to sell me
on expensive surgeries and procedures that wouldn’t have done anything,
all those things coming up in memory, knowing I can’t bear
to have another animal-love die; or it’s the dreams I have sometimes
way too often, too realistic, and too frightening, dreams of complete loss,
of standing in the cemetery at my Beloved’s family ranch,
standing at her grave with her siblings and dearest friends,
not knowing what happened, inconsolable;

or it’s the real-world, solid grief, of missing my brother
who died in 2008 of a sudden massive heart attack
while stoned, sitting in his hot tub, getting a blow-job
from his second trailer-trash wife who had to be SURE
my elderly mother with dementia knew those details,
and fuck, when I die, getting a stoned blowjob in the hot tub
wouldn’t be the worst way to go, except, I’ll have to get a hot tub first;
so he went happy, but I am still angry at him
for not taking better care of his health because I need him here, now, to talk to,
I am already older than he was when he died and he always accepted me
just as I was, and I know he still would, and there are days
where I need to know someone is out there who does.

My brain tries to make up all these stories about the grief
because that’d what brains do
but the grief isn’t about anything
some of it is older than me, inherited
some is just my anxiety magnified infinitely
so I simply stand there until my chest opens a little
and the tears stop and my heart is back to something like normal.

My lover will be arriving soon.
I think: vulnerability turns her on a lot,
maybe if I’m still crying I’ll get laid.
When I text her this, after the fact the day
I am writing this, she said: sorry you didn’t get laid.
I said, Princess, your head on my shoulder
was what I needed last night, and no more.
I think: it’s so easy to mistake boundaries for rejection
when she needs time alone, I feel cut off
when I need time alone, I don’t even need to explain
but I do and fuck it up
because I”m not being true to myself,
I’m trying to fit my need for quiet and solitude
into a framework not meant for that,
and maybe I can just say: tonight, I am enough
I am not broken, I care for you,
but my need is to be my own primary.

All that is going through my brain, leaning
against the counter, holding the freshly-sharpened knife.

slowly, ever so slowly, everything unclenches, the joy I have almost always now,
joy at being alive, joy at being in love, creeps back in, pushing grief ahead of it
like the tide pushing shells and rocks up the sand at the beach, and maybe, even,
just barely maybe, and I think this because hope is always hovering
over my shoulder in the same space where my connection to everything resides,
maybe they weren’t tears of grief at all but joy-tears, tears for all the beauty
I have in my life, so that I seriously need to ponder and uncover why
my brain goes to sadness as it’s default, because I have more joy
than I ever would have thought possible just three years ago:
deeply-connected lovers, new possibilities for more of the same,
women and men, some more closely connected already than others,
expanding each of my edges;

As I dry my cheek I realize they were cool tears, not burning ones,
cool water to wash away the silly distractions of the day that I got caught up in,
so that when my love arrives I am really, finally, completely here.
All this slides away as I hear her key turning in the lock.
In the end, only joy matters.

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The Dance of Becoming Acquainted

The dance of becoming acquainted
at first, is just wild rock and roll
or maybe R&B,
you do your thing, I do mine,
perhaps we do them in the same space
with some influence that shapes
what the other is doing, but mostly
I move how I do, and that’s that;
I’m always moving to the slower beat
the one behind the main beat
feeling it in my hips and wanting to sway;
like one partner said, as if this was
an insult, I dance like a girl. yes, proudly so.

A little later in becoming acquainted, it’s more like Bachata
in open position; your hands above, mine inverted, yours resting in mine,
two arm lengths apart, but moving at least
in the same direction to the same rhythm.
Then, in dancing as in everything, I’m the lead
and I bring you into closed position
my right arm around your left side under your arm
hand on your shoulderblade, your elbow resting on mine
other hands giving each other enough pressure
to keep the form, sense the moves.

When I know you more fully, it’s Kizomba
chest and belly to chest and belly
my lead in my intent and pressure,
slow and sensual. There’s the old joke,
why do Baptists not have sex standing up?
Because someone might think they are dancing.
I think about that, and the Irish saying,
dancing is a vertical expression of
a horizontal impulse, when I see anyone I desire
across from me, their body moving in ways
that make my heat rise, energy moving up my spine;
or when I see her dancing with another man
her hips moving in ways I know from my bed
and sometimes, just sometimes
I get it exactly right, exactly locked into my partner’s intent
and we are like one body, the beast with two backs
but on the dance floor and not the bed.

One night at a dance workshop, where there were
separate rooms for each style, in the Kizomba room
the songs flowed one into the other without pause
and I watched a couple who had just met,
an older man and a gorgeous young woman
getting acquainted through their moves, his lead sure
without being oppressive, her follow only a moment behind
and my heart longed for that with each of my loves,
that connection, that intensity, so that my eyes were teary;
and then my dance and bed partner, seeing what I was watching,
leaned over and said, seeing them makes me wet, I want that with you;
and I realized that it’s not the dance of becoming acquainted
that I need to learn, but the knowing each other in every sense of knowing
that I need to let flow into my lead, so that whether or not we are lovers,
my follows surrender, as all good follows eventually must.

I look at you and hold out my hand and you stand and take it;
I lead you onto the dance floor, for now, perhaps,
in open position, or we can still dance rock and roll if we desire,
but inevitably, as we dance ever closer, learning the other’s stories,
opening our vulnerabilities, we will be dancing
belly to belly and chest to chest
and most lovely of all, for me, mind to mind and heart to heart.

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Flirting

When I was married, if a woman flirted with me,
I could count on a nuclear barrage when I got home;
even if I didn’t flirt back, all hell broke loose
she threw things or threw things at me
and there was no protection, like when I was in elementary school
and we had ‘duck and cover’ exercises getting under our desks,
as if that was going to make any difference
if an atomic bomb went off at the refinery a handful of miles away.

Nukes are no longer part of my daily life
that arms race I just walked away from
so now I can just figuratively sit back
and enjoy flirting, the energy, the fun, the playfulness,
although with you, well, the heat was almost
as fierce as a bomb blast, when you touched
my leg with your foot, or took my hand
and placed it on your ass, even though I had set
the container to only be making out,
that was a difficult, I should say hard, moment
to withdraw from.

Flirting is location and person specific.
Flirting is the wind going through the trees in my back yard,
sitting crosslegged on my couch, wanting to look
at your short skirt when it rides up, but instead
looking at your face, thinking about how your lips
will feel against mine. Flirting is the connection
when I put my arm across the back of the couch
and touch your shoulder. We talk about our histories, music, friends.
Your eyes are shining, radiant.

The energy of flirting is the energy
of fucking, 100 times slower; approach, withdraw; enter your space
move away, a little, from your space, each time a little farther in,
savoring the connection as much as I savored the salad you made me for supper.

More, please.

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Picnic Table

I liked the way your hands felt
between mine, soft and powerful
I could feel the energy,
touching the inside of your wrists
your gaze changing, some hints of passion.
I like hints. I like the slow movement
with someone I am meeting;
the teasing out of story, of connection;
the possibilities, or not, that open.
Your eyes are soft and stern simultaneously.
When I approach a definition of self,
a naming of your path,
that fits you, your whole body relaxes.
My desire is to open that path
since where it leads can’t be known
from this side of the gate.

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Not Across the Universe

Words come flowing out
things I might have said
years before but bit back

I’m sitting on the couch
we bought for our new house
my tongue shredded by pain
lips bloodied the way my arm was
when you dug your nails in
heart cut partly through
in little ribbons
like those Mexican paper flags
that hang from the strings
in the restaurant we go to
every Sunday after church

My words hang in the air
between us, you unable to hear
both of us crying

You say, you promised to stay
when I was old, I say
I don’t feel safe with you
and I leave, and leave again
multiple times as I retrieve
the rest of my stuff that
you hadn’t yet destroyed.

Fast forward three years
I’m sitting on another couch,
my beloved’s, it’s later night,
I have come to your space
to tell you difficult things,
things I need from you
I am crying suddenly
flashing on the memory
of the other time
and you look at me
and I see that this time
I am heard, you fully hear me
and in that single moment
you heal my heart
from all those years
she told me
that I was nothing.

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Rules

In a text, you were flippant
about one of my rules.
I text: this isn’t a game
to me. Thirty minutes go by.
Then your reply: nor to me.
My heart swells, this is the first
moment of complete certainty
since your first surrender;
I am dizzy with what opens in front of me
and I reply: then, when you are with him
You WILL wear the bracelet
as your day-collar?
Your reply: Yes, David.
I never knew exactly the power
your obedience would open in me
and tears of gratitude come
that you are mine.

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Surrender lessons

Surrender is your head
on my shoulder, fingers
tracing through the tangles
in your hair, my cheek
against your head.
It is in your eyes,
maybe even as a plea.
Surrender sprouts from words,
from tiny gestures.
It lands in your settling
more and more against me,
as your breath become gentle waves;
in the energy waves of your back;
in the way you allow
my enclosure.
Then it has escaped for now.
Perhaps, soon, we will open again
the fence that allows it
to enter and run freely,
howling at the moon.
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Erotic Blueprints™

I am a certified coach using The Erotic Blueprints™ developed by the somatic sexologist Jaiya Ma.The Erotic Blueprints were developed by Jaiya out of her more than two decades of work helping people discover their body’s true responses. They are an excellent tool for improving communication in partnerships, learning what our own true desires are, and uncovering blocks in our emotional, physical, and spiritual responses to one another.

Want to discover your Erotic Blueprint type?
Click here…

Once you know, you can to send me the quiz results here and we can discuss what that might mean for you.




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False Doctrine

I read some poems a while back
at an open mic in a bar
and I sucked.

Lots of ways to say that. One friend I had
who is very prim and proper, wouldn’t use the word suck
things “Hoovered” or sometimes
if she was really upset, “that vacuumed”
I could have said, I blowed.
But let’s stick with the word suck.

I like that word. It feels like something I can own.
I’ve sucked at lots of things
in my life. Being a school-teacher,
being a husband, being calm and secure in meetings.
Sucking is something I’m used to.

I didn’t used to be used to sucking.
My ex-wife said, women don’t like to do that
they just do it so they won’t lose their man,
But even at the time I knew she was wrong
because I had a girlfriend, before I met her,
who couldn’t wait to get my zipper open.
So yeah, I like to get sucked.
and I am with women who like to do it,
thanks be to God.

I bet you think that’s an odd thing to go to,
when I’ve switched to talking
about oral sex, thanks be to God.

I used to be a pastor.
I say used to be, because the powers that be
in the church I was part of
found out that I like, among other things,
being sucked, that I liked fucking,
that on occasion I liked flogging someone
and tying them up, consensually, of course,
and a lot more, and I’m single,
and the rule-book says single people have to be celibate,
and I said, on my blog, that’s a stupid rule
and I’m not going to follow it
and so I broke their rules and
they did what they had to do
and asked me to resign, and I did
because I’m trying to live authentically
and I don’t fit their rules.

But anyway, I like sex and I am in love
with a few amazing women,
being polyamorous in my orientation,
and the church is messed up
in my opinion, (which is only that)
about sex and about love and about real intimacy.
It’s one thing to live your conviction
that sex is good and sacred even outside [gasp]
the narrow bounds of hetero marriage,
but it’s another to say so publicly
and I went too far in that to be ignored,
so I am no longer a United Methodist deacon.

When I was in seminary, I went to a Presbyterian seminary,
right about then the Presbys were arguing
about whether gay and lesbian people
could be ordained, and they voted yes,
and half of my class came out.
And some churches took their toys and went home,
left the denomination, and how stupid is that
because the Presbyterian church uses a call system
for their pastors, if they need a pastor,
people apply and are interviewed and hired,
and no one can force a church
who doesn’t want to to hire a queer pastor.
But they left, and the same thing
happened in the Lutheran and Episcopal churches,
and is about to in the Methodist church,
and they all wonder, they spend hours and weeks
wondering and studying and having conferences about
why young people don’t want to come to church
or why gay and lesbian people don’t want to come to church,
and that is such a waste of time, it’s totally obvious
that no one would want to go someplace where the leadership
doesn’t and can’t ever look like them;

so I was in seminary at that time, and I saw
a tee-shirt that one of my classmates had,
and on the front at the top it said:
Everything Jesus said about Sex,
and there were two Bible verse listed, two,
and on the back it said at the top:
Everything Jesus said about money, greed, and the poor,
and the whole back of the shirt was covered in tiny print
with Bible verses, over 200,
and still, the church in general is way more
worried about who fucks who
than who is fucking over who.

But I am convinced, from everything in the Bible, even,
that the Divine is way more worried about who is fucking over their
sisters and brothers than who is fucking who consensually.
I think this because I think the Divine is about love,
the Divine is love, and love, at least among humans
and that is all we can really know,
(because anything we say about the Divine is mostly incorrect)
among humans, love craves to be expressed;
and if the Divine really is about love
and really is, as Christian theology says,
three persons in one, in eternal conjoined bliss,
mutually holding one another completely in union,
then the Divine is polyamorous
and having one continual creation-long energetic orgasm.
You can see, probably, if you ever went to church
how this could be considered false doctrine.

And so, because of all this, I am no longer a fucking preacher
but I am now, and will always be, a preacher of fucking.
Can I get an Amen?
[that’s an inside joke for any
of my former colleagues who might
be reading this…]

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The Body Gathering

What if there were a church…

where every time we gathered we built from scratch a safe container of consent…
where no one was judged for who they are or how they express that truth…
where everyone was honored and supported in the place they are in life…
where we could talk openly about sex, gender, consent, pleasure, and relationships..
where the leaders were open and honest about their own struggles and challenges…
where you, you as a precious divine being, felt truly at home…
where we were engaged in the world, helping the least and lost, the marginalized, sex-positive, kink, and LGBTQAI+ communities…
where a connection to the divine Presence is more important than doctrine or belief….

Would you come to that church?

Would you support it’s mission?

I have, for some time now, been urged by my mentors and friends to find a way to integrate all the parts of my life: pastor, church musician/liturgist, sexuality coach, social activist, and queer gender-fluid masculine-primary pansexual polyamorous man. There is no existing church in San Antonio that would welcome me fully in all these parts of myself, even the most progressive ones. So I am desiring to start one, one that I would want to go to, where I would feel welcome in all my different life-bits.

This ‘church’ will have a local San Antonio, TX real-world component and a virtual component.

Our focus will be to use ritual to heal ritual damages; to help everyone who has been shamed, traumatized, abused, or oppressed by the Church to find their path toward healing. Secondarily, or maybe more importantly than healing, we will build community, share our wisdom, help those who are living at the sexual margins work out real-world problems, and be a resource and safe haven for anyone being actively hurt because of their sexual orientation, gender expression, or kink.

If you are interested in this in any way, let’s talk.

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Spillway

Heart so full it spills out of my eyes,
we walk; I let my finger
run down your spine to the hollow
above your jeans, that last time,
too long ago, I had pulled
from the ankles, down your legs
exposing lace and paleness;
and underneath your talk of work,
family, friends, house paint color names,
Forest Mint, Early Periwinkle,
underneath I hear the same voice
earlier husky with desire, wordless,
that opens in me sensations
I thought were gone, never to return.

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Shimmering

From one reveal to the next
there is a hard inevitability
like the glint of the obsidian’s edge
slicing open my heart
like the glimmer of grandmother’s diamonds
on my littlest finger
I slide forward into new skin
the feel of yours against mine
mine suddenly awakened in a burst
my fingertips running over your scalp
lips hovering, almost grazing
and letting complete or nearly so strangers
see into my darkness, the conchoidal shimmer
of the edge slicing into my awareness
taking away the old, glitter running
down the waste chute, going into
the oblivion of what’s already done,
and when I open myself, let you see me,
I stand shivering, sometimes scared,
always better at the end
than when I first let the knife strike my skin.

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Permission

We had chatted online
but meeting in person
electricity was in your eyes.
We talked of openness,
domination. I shared a writing,
your body involuntarily shuddered,
you laughed and revealed
your desire for surrender.
My pulse was faster, your eyes
were glimmering, unflinching,
the connection so clear,
and yet I hesitated to ask
what my desire was, for touch,
for body connection.

Now, as I write, I am glad I hesitated,
because, later, we text: you, I suppose,
in bed, me still in the hotel lobby, and
you ask for permission to pleasure yourself.
I instruct you on the proper form
for that request, and you comply,
your obedience delights me,
your brief surrender unfurls a whole landscape
that could, perhaps will be, between us in time.

My breath comes faster, my body
reacts, cock erect instantly.
My mind’s eye sees you naked,
because, of course, I had been,
even without meaning to,
mentally undressing you earlier
as you talk about your lingerie,
noticing your cleavage, your body’s outline.

I see in my imagination your face in ecstasy.
I am not sure which was more thrilling:
the idea that my thoughts
pushed you toward this need
or that you shared it with me
so openly and clearly. I cannot wait
for our next conversation.

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Joy, again

Driving to a nearby town
I feel electricity surging
my chest full and opening
thoughts of multiple loves
alternating, lifting me

Sitting in the coffee bar
an older gay couple
are deep in conversation
their care and affection
palpable, transparent

I rejoice that I am alive
in a time where they
can be open and out
where I can love many women
and talk about that with friends

and there is a world
of ugliness and hate
all around, still
how dare I, some ask
be overflowingly joyous?

I know only one remedy
for hate and evil
to live as full of joy
as I am today, and tomorrow
to do that again

I wish for you, all of you
the same electricity
the current of deep love
running up your spine
and filling your eyes

with the liquid of awe

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Wine Bar

I sit across from you
hearing your words
feeling something else old
slide beneath, rustling
in the bushes, and the old,
old impulse to try to fix
what can’t be rises in me,
I push it away, blue-gold threads
of energy tangled up between,
a useless thing, because of course
you are not broken, not in need
of any fixing, just momentarily
paused, contemplating your life
the butterfly perched briefly,
a bird in mid-flight;
leaves moving in the wind,
all things are just a ripple;
but if you would allow it,
friend I love, I would enclose you
and make a space where
for a flight’s-time, for the length
of the wind’s movement,
you could be at peace.

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Divorciversary

Across the room, my three
lovers, my delight, comfort,
and Beloved, sit, close together
in conversation, about what
I don’t know, unnecessary to know,
and I see from a distance
mutual respect and admiration
and you, all of you at once
look up at me, and in your eyes
I see myself reflected, for a moment
as you see me, through the lens
of your affection and love
and suddenly my heart
is entirely too large for this chest,
I am dizzy with joy and humility
that all of you love me,
that my life has brought me
through every bit of anguish
to this point, this evening;
the rest of the room of people
oblivious to my revelation,
to my certainty that my desire
to grow old with each of you
is an adventure only beginning;
I am larger than I can be,
and coming back to myself I find
your eyes, and yours and yours,
where I get lost repeatedly,
now are places where
I am finally, completely found.

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Home

the back of my hand rests
on the napkin holding tortillas
your fingers curled around mine
each thumb to the other’s little finger
I am focused totally on you
to the best of my capacity
and this is uncomfortable for you
I say, my desire for you
is for you to fully receive
this amount of love
we speak of desire and love
you say, I am afraid
of being submerged, of losing
myself, and I totally understand
I say, my therapist asked me
a decade ago, why I got married
I said, I loved her, and he said,
that is not usually enough,
most people have other reasons
as well, and I admitted
that I had hoped she would help me
be accountable to being the man
I thought I could be but that it didn’t happen
and he said, did she give you any reason.
and I told you, now, in this moment,
that what you had said earlier, in our pleasure,
that you desired that I be more fit,
that you had not said ever to me
for fear I would be hurt, had landed in me
as deep love, as the reason I need
to go beyond my own will to do this
to be fit and healthy for me,
for you, for what is between us,
for the length of our desire
to go on and on into old age together.
later sitting on my back porch
with coffee, your legs resting over
the arms of both our chairs
we talk about our deep desires and fears
about what our future might hold
about what home is and isn’t
and I thought, but still did not have
the courage to say,
my home is where you are

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Stuff

I’m at a lover’s house
and you text me a picture
of yourself in my bed.
My house is yours, I told you
and it’s true
I come home and find your clothes
by the bed, your chapstick
on the counter, your shampoo
at the edge of tub.
You said before,
I’m living with you
and dating my husband
who I like and you love
and we, you and I, are in love
and you said, part of me is entirely yours
and the genius of that
slid everyone in my constellation of loves
into a new alignment
not a pie divided up into finite pieces
but an ever-expanding, unlimited
love for everyone, all expanding
together and each part of me
getting bigger now than even
the single part of me was before.
I grow huge and transparent
and bubbling up in me,
like the bloops of your lava lamp
are new shapes and arrangements
always shifting and changing
but still me, still you, still them
still all of us
and part of me is entirety yours,
and hers, and hers

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