is a step
to the east
with a smile
on your face
a white t-shirt
and rain jacket
is a recessive
gene and one day
disappear like migrating
and there’s moss growing
stones on my path
Green is immortal
especially when they’re
Who among us have never longed to be someone else.
I’m often asked, “Are all the men you write about real or fantasy?”
They are all real. Each and everyone.
It’s their names which are fantasy.
They’re all aliases. Each and every one including Otter, Pup, D., Luciano, Jean-Baptiste, Sao Paulo, Isaiah, Corey, Calhoun, Mark, Michael IV, Micheal VII, Jeffrey, and yes, Rodrigo.
I write about how they’ve moved me, how they’ve touched me; I’ve written about what they’ve said and how they shared it with me; I’ve described flanks, and torso’s, and buttocks, and faces, and waffling and pancaking (Rodrigo and I waffle).
I’ve learned that keeping my life secret was difficult for me, since I write a blog on the internet. But keeping the identity of lovers sacrosanct was something I hadn’t bothered to worry about. Who wouldn’t want to read about themselves on the internet?
All of them didn’t.
They understood and continue to understand that as a writer I will write about what inspires me, and what inspires me are them, the lovers in my life. But what they didn’t wish to share was themselves.
You see, how I see them and how the world would see them are different.
I write about them in ways that I see them; through my eyes; not through theirs. I point out things and feelings and places that they might never see.
An alias is more than a name.
An alias can be about an entire experience.