So this is my most recent poem. For any gay kid who grew up playing sports, this is dedicated to us. I am the youngest of 3 sons. Both of my older brothers were college pitchers. My dad is an ex-major league pitcher. And my mom is a bit of a female super-jock. Needless to say, I was bred into sports since my hands could grip a baseball, or in this case, a hockey stick. My parents were bringing me out to the pond since I was two years old, literally, skates so small you could fit them in your pocket. I have an intense connection with the ice. I don't think I could ever explain it, but maybe it's worth writing a poem about. I'll get back to you on that one. This poem is about what it was like off the ice, specifically in the locker room, where the intimate moments of straight male camaraderie were witnessed and admired by eyes that weren't meant to see them, where behind a mask of reflective assholery, I managed to see their world from the inside, and I marveled at how easily they seemed to exist without shame. This poem is about shame, about the struggle of hiding the truth of what we feel, and about hot naked guys! I have no doubt that if any of them read this, they would be more uncomfortable than they were when I first came out. But fuck them! (no pun intended). If I could suffer through every moment of hiding how much I wanted to touch them, leaving me cold and empty, as formless as a ghost, then they can suffer through the supposed embarrassment of having their cocks admired by a gay guy! And their asses, depending on the individual. If they could only understand how freeing it is to finally let go, maybe they would feel a little flattered, but I doubt it. So to those of you that shared this harsh reality of perpetual stimulation, anxiety, and shame, and to the memories of those beautiful bodies that hang like paintings in my mind, this is for you!
Pheromones of a Hockey Locker Room
Their sweat sets me on fire!
Ultraviolet rays of desire
that radiate upon the landscape of my body.
No eyes can see it,
but my peninsula acts accordingly.
The rivers rage through whitewater canyons,
the reckless flow rams against my stiffening dam
as I untie my skates.
The twenty bodies,
each moist and shimmering,
surround my bunker, and I can't help
but peak through the porthole.
The screams inside leave me silent
and shaking.
Their laughter drives me mad
as they take off their shin pads.
One by one, they strip before me,
oblivious to the eyes that watch
from behind a mask. I take my time,
like a doctor with his patient,
examining each glory from head to toe.
As the jockstraps drop like a gateway to heaven,
the burning light calls forth a quiet shudder
and my twitching sword
pierces through its sheath!
I have to look away to hide from this sun
that its atomic heat makes my forests grow wild.
For if you stare too long at this cosmic wonder naked,
a volcano might erupt with liquid plasma.
And the blindness that it leaves
could extinguish the life of my entire planet.
Now one, then two, then five, six, and seven,
the nuclear reactions fuse into galaxies,
and the mortal flow of blood
rushes to my fountain of life.
I have to stop and breathe,
and focus on the frost,
hoping that its chill will shield me
from this reign of fire.
And so I grab my towel,
wrap it tight around my waist,
but even this double-layered cloak
can't hide the throbbing as it ripples.
I can't believe they don't know by now,
as this 1000 act play
draws its curtains once again,
and I step before the crowd
into the steaming mists.
Concealed by a corner,
the anxiety brews with shame,
and the alchemy yields
yet another broken dream.
If I can hide it till their gone,
till the solitude returns,
then the mask will be preserved,
and judgment day postponed.
But the burning will leave scars,
a melanoma of the mind,
sunspots on your eyes from
having stared too long
at the face of god.
Only in the emptiness of my bed,
silhouetted in shadows,
when the act has come to halt
and the crowds at intermission,
only then can the dam,
almost broken by the river's force,
release the whitewater tides
in an avalanche of tears.
Speaking as a fellow gay poet, this is fantastic. I've only read a few pieces of your work so far, but I'm quickly finding myself in love with your style.
ReplyDeleteI'll be watching.
--BR Belletryst.
Because I'm in love with Mr. Levi Johnston, and because Mr. Levi Johnston plays hockey, I adore this poem.
ReplyDeleteFantastic title, and about halfway through the poem, my cheeks get red every time.
I'm burning right along with you.
Also, I like that you and BR (Fun Fact - it stands for Bunny Rabbit) connected. You guys were the youngest poets in Ganymede Unfinished, I believe.
ReplyDeleteWhich part makes your cheeks red? :)
ReplyDeletei remember these feelings. the poem makes me want to laugh and squeal and cryle. i used to dash out of that locker room as quickly as possible because i felt (ashamed). but I DID soak it all in. and i have painted these (bodies) with intense craving. masking not only the painter, but his subject as well. a river with presents floating down its corrupt rapids!!!
ReplyDeleteThis poem is not appropriate for middle school aged kids. The repeated sexual references are not meant for that age group to be reading, at least not in a classroom or public environment. If a queer middle school student came across this on their own and appreciated it, that would be one thing. But for an adult to share this with a group middle school kids would be quite inappropriate.
ReplyDeleteIn terms of my father, this is not a place for me to engage in personal/family discussions with someone that I do not know. I do not know of any active players who are gay, although I'm sure there are many in the closet who won't come out until they retire.
I appreciate your interest in my poetry, however, your questions are not meant for this type of forum.
Thank you