Night Out

Poetry by | January 27, 2008

Tonight’s no night for stories and poems
The moon’s fair, witches are out leaping
from eaves to twigs
I paced about; heard them sing
“Come catch the moon about to fall.”

Memoirs of a "Gay-sha"

Nonfiction by | January 27, 2008

I have been gay since I was five. Playing with toy guns or miniature race cars were never my game. Instead, I fancied baby dolls and their flamboyant dresses and silky, curly locks. I considered them alive—my little friends and fairy godmothers with whom I shared my innermost desires.

But my Mama had a great distaste for watching me play with my little girly playmates and would pinch me hard to restore my male consciousness. After all, dolls are for girls and I was meant to play with less delicate things. To get back to my pink world, I decided to play with my dolls in a place where I thought we could be protected—behind the bushes in front of Mama Mary’s grotto in our backyard. Like the mists of Avalon, the bushes concealed us from the great perils of time and my mother’s disapproval. We played roles, had tea parties, and fairy dances. But our favorite musical act was Sister Act 1’s “I Will Follow Him,” in which the fake nun Whoopi Goldberg infected the world with happiness by reworking a boring church hymn into great song-and-dance number. It is the song that would best define my gay childhood. It carried me to beautiful heights of happiness and divinity.

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Ant Travels

Fiction by | January 27, 2008

From beneath the ground, across the leaves, up and down a wall, and into the cookie jar – the ants traveled, carrying crumbs of cookies back to their colony. Now and then, they would stop by and greet each other by brushing their antennas and then carried on with their merry hauling.

From far away – on the adjacent floor – the ant Antonino watched his fellow workers with a great deal of confusion and frustration.

Antonino had found a shortcut. By coming out of the edge of the colony, and passing through a crack on the wall, he could come out just beside the cookie jar. It would cut the length of traveling to less than half! His problem, however, was that the other ants did not want to take this route.

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This Origami Life

Poetry by | January 27, 2008

this little origami life
lies on the floor with torn wings
what happened to days meant only
for kissing daisies while standing on pointed toes
was it in my absorption in the bright colors
that time seemed to have stopped and jumped simultaneously?
perhaps i should start counting and recounting petals
the way others do with sheep to dream
isn’t it what you wanted anyway
a math i can never understand
where you and i amount to a ripening womb
whose fruit is neither yours nor mine
sweet nectar ignorant of parched throats of those
whose heads are hanging and have browned–
from thirst of love and truth and life;
innocent and uncorrupted by all that we are

Your Flesh is Sweet

Poetry by | January 27, 2008

Your flesh is sweet
and tender
it melts
on my tongue
a raincloud on
a sunny day
consumed
by a hungry blue-ness
you inhale water
as i do air
and speak in bubbles
that i drown
in my language
to touch your words,
which i will never know.
My catch for the day
fresh from the lake
tomorrow again
another you.

Junior

Fiction by | January 20, 2008

Listen to me, Jun. To tie a box, you have to make sure that you have strong straw. Strong straws don’t break easily even if you pull it hard. And once you twined it around the box, the straw would hold your box in place. I told you that before. Remember?

Now, hold the end of this straw and shove it under the box as if you’re scraping. Follow my lead. Here. You shove it this way then pull the other end upward. Straws are puckered, so be careful not to split the thread. Don’t even try doing it. Then, bring together the ends of the straw and do a knot. Just a single knot, though. That’s good. Now, twist the straw and shove it again underneath. Pull it up. No. Do it carefully. You’re breaking the straw.

Continue reading Junior

Night Out

Poetry by | January 20, 2008

Tonight’s no night for stories and poems
The moon’s fair, witches are out leaping
from eaves to twigs
I paced about; heard them sing
“Come catch the moon about to fall.”