Twenty-second Tuesday

i confess i’ve been a naughty boy
time to make jack your toy
put your tattoo on my ass
keep it hard and beat it fast
then a certain nimble spice
will blend the chocolate with the vice
black and blue with hearts of red
put me in your flying sled
take me round the world with you
up some chimneys down some flues
in the glow of solstice lights
i’ll teach you how to scale some heights
keep the switches and the coal
mend the body rend the soul
now that santa’s had his pay
it’s time for jack to have his way

Sunday’s Worship

Iechyd da!

I have a couple of rules. Never date an actor. You’ll never be sure that anything isn’t just an act. I know. It’s a generalization. I should try my best not to do that.  And I realize that  you could, as others — like that silly Athenian — have done, claim that writers and poets can’t be trusted because we know how to tell beautiful lies that seem true — duly inspired by the Helicon Muses. Okay, I got it. Rule number two? That’s easy. While I will chat away with bartenders for hours if they are so inclined, I’ve never once tried to date one — or pick one up for a fast fuck for that matter. Waiters are totally different even if I know that  they’re with the Russians too.

Last night I had spent most of my time sitting and chatting with the cute little cub who was in town on business of some sort or other, but he left before I was ready to relinquish my bar stool. As I finished my beer, I paid my check and  asked the barkeep if he was working on New Year’s Ever. He wasn’t sure. I cocked my head to one side and scribbled my phone number on the back of my copy of the bar bill, handed it to him, and said that if he does wind up pulling beer and thinning gin as the old year passes and the new one begins to let me know. I’d come sit a spell. Otherwise, I’d find somewhere else to play. Did he get all the implications? I’m not sure. Will he call? Who knows. And even if I wind up there, will anything come of it?  Dunno. After all, I could be dealing with a straight guy. My Gaydar ® could be off after all.

So here’s something else I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing six months ago. And to be totally honest, I didn’t think about it last night. I just did it. As the old year winds down, Jack finds a new part of himself, and that is a very good thing. So, mayhap at some point I’ll date an actor — just because. But no worries, I’ll never take advantage of singing chefs. ; )=

Fabu Friday

Perennial Poetic Proclamation

I was introduced to this poem in Joy Pennington’s anthology, Selected Kentucky Literature.  It’s been a favourite for several years.

 

Ode to a Purple Aluminum Christmas Tree
-by Harriette Arnow

Last year when residential streets
with their strings of colored lights
resembled filling stations
and the glitter of shop windows
hurt my eyes
a woman met in the course of an errand
said:

“Oh, you must go to Mike’s
out on Stadium;
you can’t imagine the Christmas trees
they have for sale;
all aluminum
but in different colors,
a whole row of big purple ones;
I could stand all day
and just look at them.”

I wanted to cry;

Instead went home and tried to write
Ode to a Purple Aluminum Christmas Tree.
Trying
was as far as I ever got.

Gaudete Sunday

May your Yuletide be filled with Love.

Salacious Santa Saturday

For retail, it’s Black Friday. For the Western Christian Faithful, it’s Levavi. For me Yuletide begins on the Eve of St. Nicholas. I always have my residence decorated by that date, and I have certain, let us say, customs by which I abide.  Yes, gin is involved, but it’s all very sedate — by my standards at least.

I also realize that this is the first Yule in a  bit when I’ve not had a relationship on the horizon. It works for me on some level. After all, despite my new found appreciation of the post-modern, I’m still old-fashioned enough to want the True Form over the simulacrum. May the atomic sub present himself soon.

So, here’s a toast to the Holiday — no matter which one you observe at this darkest time of year. May you find peace, hope, and most of all, your heart’s desire.

I Wanna Be Your Christmas Present…

Sunday’s Worship