So I haven’t written a sonnet in years, and even then that was by accident. Anyway, this one’s for Thet:

We walk our weeks in lives which are disjoint
with only -ends when we might meet with cheek
to cheek. And still the rush may disappoint
our plans—my days pass by and still I seek
a day when we, without a sacrifice,
can be both close and close without a phone
which lets us wander all around, entice
with winding chats—and leaves us still alone.
Yet when I see and feel and hear your voice
my doubts are calmed and stroked all smooth again.
I know that we can wait before a choice
of where to go, or how, with whom, for what, and when.
So I pursue, not rush, and set my pace
for miles to come, and just enjoy the chase.

Fond and Fiercesome Symbiosis

OR

And this is beauty

OR

Winged Hoarse

OR

This Ethnic Slur

OR

One page at a time

OR

Aging Americans

OR

My Whitey something

OR

Chinese Exercises for Eyes

OR

Jwei Jwei (apologies to pinyin)

Epigraph:

‘Do you speak Chinglish?’

‘No’

‘Meh. Coulda been love.’

‘I love your hat.’

j’Well, will you abandon capitalism?’

‘No.’

‘Meh. Coulda been love.’

Instructions:

Imbibe:

two maker’s marks, chilled to perfection.

Hippo and peckerbird

OR

blackwoman redtaping entry for cleaning

OR

3K loan revisited

OR

every terminal ‘l” become ‘o’ (e.g. ‘possible’ become ‘possibo’)

OR

how pedophiliac senators show love

OR

something something

OR

unlikely, metaphysically impossible, impredicative

OR

superlatively drunk

So it is frightening, this sharp line, this bright line between my week, my weak. And there is Ben Keightley. And he is beautiful.

I am not jamaica.

And there was Miss Fegs. And I am party to tacit greek racism. For I worry about how she is viewed, and me in my closetedness. But is OK. And she mistreats new help. And it is fine. And she had two husbands, and now none, and it averages out to one. And there will be many more.

And there is Alric. And he is faggily incompetent, in his faggy enthusiasm for me, the highlight of his week (and he could use a platinum-blond streak or two), he locks himself out of red wine and sex and the city. And there is woe looking for a locksmith with the last four digits rubbed out, like an amputee who has only and only and only his thumb on his right hand, which is crucial, because Joephet is occasionally and intentionally (robot voice) inaccessible like the location of the minimal fixed point in Kripke’s theory of truth. I love math. I love joephet. And I part with Alric. And it is fine.

And I go to D’s filming, though he is trying to set me up with Chastity or Charity and Juliana. But they are dickless. And I am bored and intrigued. And i walk to Pegasus via Columbus Circles, which is appropriate what with the faint and malingering scent of horseshit and horsepiss, for that is all that gaysianness is. And that is OK.

And at Pegasus there is Karaoke again, without scoring. For how could I score without my Joephet, my boy, my pillow, my baby, my paratactical truth.

And I come home, sweating, my metrocard damaged (and now mailed) beyond repair, like my life without my pillow.

And I am here. And so on and on and on.

And on Colubmus Circle it would be so fucking easy to be bitter. And that is why I am not so, so, so. And so I hope.