Untitled 1975-86

after Alvin Baltrop

What story shall we tell
our friends of how
we met, the one
in the warehouse, our bodies
stilted against a wall, you
teach me of piss, tasted
of coffee and malted
beer, how I looked
up at you smiling
with a river running
from my mouth?

In Search of Touch

First dates are meant to be flirtatious and giggly. In another time, we would be meeting inside a dark downtown bar. Music playing. The stench of sour liquor pinching my nose. He’d ask what I like and order me something smooth. After half a drink, the conversation would begin to flow. I’d ask him a crucial question, “What’s your favorite kind of fry?” He’d say tater tots. “What? That’s not even a fry!” I’d say shoestring dipped in blue cheese because ranch is so over. Later, because he’d be too shy to make a move, I’d ask him to kiss me. This seems to be my move in any time. And we’d make out sitting side by side on barstools all limbs and tongues.