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I wanna live an analog life
Stand in snake lines
While the cashier taps math,
Air Supply sounding from Jensen loudspeakers,
Make it seem like we have a long time
Before the lights go out.

Waking up from my slumber,
The beauty. The queen.
The world has changed immensely.
I step out to be seen.

There was a breakup.
Time for a shakeup.
Let a beat
defibrillate my heart.

Jiggle put my cakes up.
Apply all my make-up.
The siren calls
for my brand-new start.

Let the light from the disco
Rejuvenate my skin and fill the room with my glitter.
Watch it shine. Spiral to sin.

There’s going to be silver.
There’s going to be gold.
A pretty hot pink
Will illuminate the soul.

Take my throne
Time to crown it.
Take my frown
upside down it.
Take the rule of this story
of being alone.

Because the sun will rise
Over everlasting night.
Under cotton candy skies,
This bluebird will take its flight.

Dance break now

Get the fuck
out my way
I’m dancing with myself.

Do not kill my vibe
Feeling fierce as hell.

Get the fuck
out my way
I’m dancing with myself.

Do not kill my vibe
Tonight I’m doing well.

I’m stronger, stronger
Feeling fierce as hell.

Stronger, stronger,
Yes I’m doing well.

Movie Pitch: ‘Stronger’ is a poignant journey of self-discovery and resilience following a devastating breakup. Set against the vibrant backdrop of New York City’s nightlife, our protagonist, a gay man navigating heartache and personal reinvention, finds solace in the transformative power of dance, drag culture, and community. As he rebuilds his identity and embraces his strength, ‘Stronger’ explores universal themes of love, loss, and the pursuit of authenticity. This empowering narrative, filled with vivid imagery and emotional depth, unfolds into a cinematic exploration of healing and the courage to thrive against adversity.

I swallowed static,
Sour static that fueled the drunk bacanal,
I drank in gulps examining a portrait of Emily Dickinson.
On Emily Dickison’s grave it reads, “Called back.”
Where did she go in death?
To a life where she loved herself more than another?
To a time, where she understood her own soul?
But, my larger question was why her picture sat in this bar?

In a clogged city, we found solace,
Walked and talked riper than before,
We sat praising past loves,
I asked of your latest heartbreak,
You spelled her name, nervous you might not know it,
She must gleam, parts of her core flickering
Maybe that is why she cut it open,
Trying to find what made her sparkle,
I love her,
Though I am unknown to her, I’d comfort her,
As someone did for me in tears for you,
I often think of her bright future,
For if she ever needed some light,
All she must do is grab some that I left at her door.

The bar smelled of old loves, tiresome transactions,
Rotting ones that whispered the same stories,
Budding ones that stretched out before our eyes,
Our company must mistake us for love,
But the magician saw through the fraud,
Magic used to exist in our timelines,
Now all smudged and erased,
Graphite remnants remaining within us.
I hem and haw between your eyes,
Afraid to be really looking at you,
Fearing your admittance,
You cover my ears,
The way a mother would to their impressionable child,

But if silence takes me to the stars, then let them take me home.

The latin root of “couple,” is “copula,” meaning bond,
We once coupled in the sun,
Couples often couple when they are not a couple.
Do our bodies know when we break a bond?
Or do our limps wait for the touch to return?

When I finished my static,
You went to retrieve more,
Emily sat with me,
Upon your return you kissed me;
And I understood that I too was called back to my grave…

You’re speaking, but not truly talking
to me. Side-lit by fibrous edge
sketching of your electric presence,
you look freshly branded
as if you are just a trick
I use to fool myself.

Ring pull in self-destructive mode
mimics the cry of a missile.
Correct me if I’m wrong—
you retract your fingers from the can,
blaming me for not being a pacifist.

You stay humble like a silent film comedian
believing action speaks louder.
Silence rests tonight upon our ankles,
pulsating its reunion to us.

Re-recognizing the city,
foreign footprints turn dawn into night.
Neon beckoning, pier leasing attire,
wounded lovers needing no sign
in the speeding roulette.

I kinda wonder: do we matter,
As electrons in this shared conductor?

What is that which answers back,
When every lens one crafts is cracked?
When every tide is rolling back,
What is that which answers back?
When all my questions seem to stack amongst these gleaming golden racks of knowledge that
through time’s been sapped,
From me through all performing acts,
His thoughts are gorged with graves, grad school,
A hospital bed.
What is that which answers back?

Gaze

I stare-
hoping,
praying,
you feel the fire
that burns beneath my irises
for you.

Silent,
I must be.
For
it is forbidden.

So I resort to gazes that simmer.
I play pretend,
faking getting caught.
And then,
in moments of brevity.
I hold on
to that rope of tension.
And pull.
Pain erupts in my palms,
and I strip my hands of their skin,
but I rather be burned and raw than a liar.
I pour scarlet into my gaze and
I beg you to see me.
Standing there,
pouring blood and honest,
better than a liar by omission or by choice.

Love is a game we play.
It ought to come with a board, in an oblong box,
LOVE: A GAME FOR ALL AGES emblazoned across the cover
Amid bright red hearts
And pudgy cherubs with wings.
Inside we’d find a pair of dice and playing pieces in bold colors.
I could be green or red and you could be blue, or purple.
And the rules would be clearly printed inside the cover.
We would sit across from one another,
The board between us, our tokens resting securely on the flat surface
Smooth and shiny and vibrant, designed to delight the senses.
We would take turns, casting the dice
Playing with a mixture of apprehension and joy
As each of us completes a move.
Weighing, calculating, the rules close by for a quick consultation,
We would play the game.
Would it be an intellectually stimulating game like CLUE,
With three secret cards in the black envelope in the middle of the board?
Would we slowly and strategically reveal the cards we hold
Until one of us solves the mystery?
Or would it hold the ruthless potential of MONOPOLY,
Each of us trying to outdo the another,
Acquiring more, demanding payment, until one of us is bankrupt and broken?
Maybe it would be more like TRIVIAL PURSUIT,
Each of us choosing categories that allow us to shine,
Avoiding those that revealed our weaknesses and limitations.
Maybe it’s more like CHESS, the game of kings,
Where one player must not only out think the other
But also demonstrate patience, willing to sacrifice something now
In order to win three moves later, anticipating each move,
As antagonists do, avoiding costly unforeseen mistakes.
Maybe LOVE is more like SORRY!
We each choose a card and advance,
Hoping to bring all the pieces safely home.
We may be sent back four spaces or returned to start before the game ends,
But sometimes we land on Slide, effortlessly moving closer to home.
In all, the result is the same: someone wins and someone loses.
And despite whatever the rules, the possibility exists
That one of us will refuse to play,
Will upset the board, scattering tiles and playing pieces,
Wiping out the game’s progress, declaring we are done,
Stalking away without explanation.

about Edgar Degas’ L’Absinthe (1876)

“This picture fetched a hundred-eighty pounds
last year; surprised it sold at all, really.
People hissed it in our sales room when it was
handed up for bidding. There was a to-do
a few months later as well, when it went on view
here at the gallery: A great many patrons
of the arts found it revolting, as you may
imagine from this copy I had made of it.

The setting’s an artists’ dive, clearly;
by the eyes, the woman’s drunk out of
her senses, probably has been for years.
Call that art? a woman drunk in public?
She’s said to be an ‘actress,’ but she’d only
fall off the stage in her condition.

Her male companion draws on his pipe,
ignores her, looks the other direction—
in search of trade, perhaps? His elbow
leaves her only a corner of the bare
marble for her glass; the water jug
she, or the waiter has set on the table next,
as if she’s with the fellow, but not really.

The absinthe is clouded, so she’s already
poured water in it, and drunk off half an inch.
The stuff’s four parts alcohol, you know,
stronger than whisky by half. The herbs in it
said to be poisonous, too. They are what
give it that clear green cast, I believe,
before mixing with water. Flavor of anise,
they say; you may as well take gripe water,
to my mind. Her limbs, you notice, are
splayed out, whether from footsoreness,
intoxication, or lewdness—all three perhaps.

Both figures are sottish, degraded. We know
such people exist—we have our own gin-
sodden tarts this side the Channel,
God knows—but to paint them? And who’d
display them at home for wife and daughter to see?
Count on the filthy French for vulgarity,
that’s my view. I much prefer his dancers,
the ballet pictures, all in all: A bit of décolletage
never goes amiss, so long as it’s respectable.
They fetch more, as well. Bloody Frogs!

Give me some raw truth,
For I am tired of dark lies.
Need a real love.

And why wouldn’t it after what happened. And why shouldn’t I brace myself, expect that it would when I headed back home. How could I? Afterall, who expects to have the bedroom window explode in a shower of glass through the room over the bed even the pillow where’s she’s sleeping. Talk about vulnerable. Not safe. No expectations of normalcy. Just both relief and surprise that more damage wouldn’t be, wasn’t inflicted.

And the questions keep replaying “Why?” The house hasn’t done anything wrong that she should be attacked. “Why me?” Eventually you hope the instant replays stop replaying the crashing shower of glass and you can return to the Before instead of the After. The house, like a boat, felt off kilter. I made a pot of coffee as if the normalcy of that would right me again.

And then there’s the aftermath, the repair stage and its cost, who to call, what to say. You called 9-1-1 who kept asking questions you didn’t know the answers to. Police arrived, found the brick, tried to assure you it was a random act of drunkenness youth revelers on this particular New Year’s Eve, but you wonder to what purpose, what meanness, what cause and effect?

The space is boarded up now where the drunken perp pictured himself an NBA star and lobbed the brick creating shards, and. You’re still encountering the scatter in bare feet. There’s even a dictum that bathroom products must never be sold in glass containers.

You cried when the Policeman found the brick. The Intent to Damage and destroy palpable, real, evident. Glass shards on my pillow. On leaving the Policeman said, “Happy New Year.” and I burst into tears. Again.

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