Homocore Punk, Former Roommate, Lost Boy

Hard-eyed with exhaustion under argon lights and cathode-rays
Impatient at the bus stop in a black trench coat
Limited protection from the intermittent rain

Eyes flicking up Castro to where my bus will eventually crest the hill
Then to the steps down to the underground metro station
As another crowded train disgorges more weary workers
I recognize a face, and ache at his accelerating decline.

Lurid hair-dye faded from a top knot lonely on his close-shaved blond head
Mouth that never opens to smile its missing teeth; not sure how lost
But knowing he’s unable to keep his trap shut
When bullied or threatened.

I nod in recognition, he starts at my ghost
Haunted by our briefly shared past
When he lived with his IWW labor organizer boyfriend in an Outer Mission flat
And offered me the empty room after my roommate’s overdose left me homeless.

Eric.

What were you doing at 3 am practicing your keyboards
When I had to be up at six for work?
My repeated, exhausted pleas to turn the volume down
As you and your friend fresh from rehab
Reminisced about getting high.

Oh Eric, I’ve watched your decline
Tried to honor your dignity when I saw you on the street
So proud when you first got clean, got off heroin and got a regular job serving coffee.
Then began to worry as neglected, clumped mascara circled around angry eyes
Assigning blame for getting moved to a store
In a less tony neighborhood
On schedule conflicts, and not your escalating inconsistency.

Tonight you hide your eyes from mine, tuck your head
I know you’re high
And I’m not ashamed. But I will worry
Because I don’t want you to die.

Homeless under another ugly night, you disappear until I’m seated on the bus
Then slip aboard, not quite invisible
Bob your head while locating me
Then hide your face seeking an open seat
Far from my gaze, as I stretch my legs in the back
And try to respect your avoidance.

Don’t be embarrassed, sweetie. I sympathize with relapse
It’s hard to shake a habit as ingrained as self-hate.
Weeks later, I still wish I’d intervened. Sought you out
While waiting at the bus stop. Reassured and encouraged you.

Eric, Do you know me?
Then know this:

Know that you are beautiful inside, and that the injuries done to you
Heal a little more every time you show genuine love to yourself.

 

They Rape Children, That’s How They Make Prostitutes.

Teen boy on the street, streaky black hair smoking outside
the bar my queer-male-sister Michel dared me inside,
noted my glace as I passed by.
I ordered our cocktails, anxious and needing a sedative
Sister just as cool as anything standing there like a bitter pillar
Carved from the harshest salts picked a table in the center
up against the wall opposite the bar that stretched nearly the length
of that long over-lit room. Michel decided to have a smoke
I watched the rough trade leaning over the pool table
and posing with their cues. A sturdy blond who could take care of himself
detached himself from the game to hi. “Just watching the game.”
I smiled at him. He shrugged your loss and turned around
Michel sauntered back into the room, his whole torso tilted back
thrusting his shoulders forward by pivoting at the waist.
his torso made a shadowy v that cut into his tight black t
Faded charcoal same as his slacks, wearing his buckled “little girl shoes”.
He took his seat with a dirty grin and noted my eyes
return to the doorway to watch the morbid waif from outside
shuffle back into the bar. My eyes noticed too long. He made a beeline to our table
and mumbling, tried to ingratiate. I gulped my Stoli-tonic. I asked his story.
It’s the same story.
Every story the same story no matter what’s said, by whom, any gender it doesn’t matter
because why never changes. The pitch is everything
especially when unrehearsed. Not a thief. Honest. Always make good on deals.
Never freaked out. Not lying.
I told him we were tourists, not voyeurs. That I wasn’t there to use anyone.
“I’m not about using anybody either.” He corrected me with wary, resentful eyes.
But we were just checking out the bar.
“At least you weren’t a-huggin’ and kissin’ on me before you said so.”

 

© 2006 Raymond Taylor - Contributor's Bio