Wednesday, May 9, 2012


—for Emil Opffer

HE sleeps—nude—stretching out
Amber curls lolling through his hair
A vague molested maleness hiding
Away from me now that he’s back
Hammocks rocking back and forth
The sea is always with him.

He doesn’t see it—he doesn’t care
It’s always there though even when
The Brooklyn Bridge leans in thru
The window facing starkly toward
The river, the way it arches like a
Hammock back & forth in us both.

I feel it in him—when he looks blue

His arms fashioned around me like a

Net pulling me from way down deep
Up into his muscular tattooed arms
Each beat of his heart coming thru
Like stormy gone whitecaps of love.

In their youth—even young Norwegian
Sailorboyz can bloom vivid and repulsive
But the truth is that even vases in the
Making can be heartbreakingly uncouth
And so it was with me & my Guggenheim
Trip down to Mexico aboard the Orizaba.

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