This is actually perhaps the second most interesting/best of the various scribblings from yesterday, but I want to look over & think on the other, longer, more awesome one before I post it.
So for now, here's a very rough draft of a poem about my compatriot queers. There was this hot guy in line at the Starbucks I was haunting (of many, many others who passed through while I idled there, but this one was particularly attractive/provoked some thoughts). So here's a bit of frustration for your enjoyment:
Those goddamn queers with their goddamn looks
—Never for me, never for me...
Their style & flirts, their easy comfort, their easy ways,
How they move & meet & spend their time,
The lines on them, the shapes,
The form & feel to them hidden underneath.
How they catch my eye! How I yearn! How I envy!
To think, some day I'll be to old to merit their notice,
While for now I'm too shy, too plain, to earn it.
But why—goddamnit, why—do I care!?
They have a surreal ability
To make me feel shitty.
I give them this power, of course,
But why don't they notice me
As I notice them?
Why doesn't their breath or heart skip,
Why don't they pause and wonder a moment?
I'd like to ascribe it to bad taste,
To tell myself they're missing out,
But it's hard sometimes to stay convinced.
I guess it's hard, too, to notice a guy like me
When there's already so many of them to be noticed first
—They, who're so good at being noticed,
Know the language of noticing
And play the game so well, so much better.
But it's also hard to understand, to justify,
Why my torrefied heart still
Wants them to notice
—And cares when they don't.
