The Fog on Cape Cod

The Fog on Cape Cod

September 2012

Some days the tide goes out so far you have to wonder if the ocean may ever come back.

All that remains are the clamshells and stench of rotting seaweed, the sandy floor a silpat stewing.

Cradled in an Adirondack chair and clinging to the last rays of Tuesday, knowing far too well that Wednesday will herald the end of one season and the beginning of another.

Yet, where I’m going there will be no marked change.

There will be apples and pumpkins and rhubarb, but the trees will still be wrought with leaves.

Only the remnants of baseball moving into football season will need raking.

And somewhere between the 7th inning stretch and halftime I’ll find myself asking where did summer go?

So many things I didn’t get to do before the autumn thrusts its comforters and afghans on me at night.

Not nearly enough corn on the cob or lobster rolls.

Too few the number of times I jumped in the ocean, naked or otherwise, keenly feeling the scratch of dried salt between my thighs.

One more bonfire away from being truly warmed.

Don’t make me put on pants, please!

Allow me the courtship between my legs and the Atlantic breeze.

There’s still time for banjos and claw hammers and washboards to sing out at sunset, putting the sun to bed and summoning the moon to fill the harbor with her brilliance.

The echo of giggles so sinful they could only live in the space between communion wafers.

My sex takes on a maternal heaviness that begins to weigh me down.

I can feel the apathy of the leaves realizing they will just do it again next year, for as much as I try to reason with them.

Next year could very well be different!

What if coulottes come back into style?

What if the best we get is a never-ending SoundCloud remix of Nicki Minaj for a soundtrack?

What if there aren’t enough oysters to go around?


But we can’t think like that.

As long as someone is willing to get up that early, there will be sunrise strong enough to burn through the Cape Cod fog.

The tide will come back in when we least expect it.

[De]Friend: The Longest Goodbye

[De]Friend: The Longest Goodbye
September 27, 2012

Where are you?

You should invite me over to commiserate, but I probably won’t come.

That was mean.

You know I always want to hang out with you.

I’m just being terrible at “coy.”

It’s a weird look for me.

I think about you too often.

I’m sorry if you’re confused.

Now, it’s time for you to stop playing coy.

Boy: you haunt me.

Like a pop tune that I unabashedly know every word to despite my tight pants.

I like laying in arms/with you in my arms.

I miss it often.

You’re appreciation of my use of colons is sweet, and “haunting” is not really the look you were going for.

So I’m going home in a bit.

Shit together or not, you affected me.

Colons aside.

You’ll be hard-pressed to be honest with me again after this.

So I’ll keep recreating momentary delusion with lesser-than misanthropes.

Take that!

She likes words.

I just like you.

But you know that already.

I’m not looking to join you on your liberation tour.

You talk too much.

Some of my favorite moments between us have only involved animal noises.

Boy: if you’re never going to be interested I’d rather hear it now.

Then, I can just put you in the friend bubble.

Otherwise, I’ll continue to think about us in wrestling garb pressing our bodies against walls and bad analogies until we shook with cum-stricken exaltation.

Your exaggerated exclamation marks said it all.

You’re a smart man, Boy.

I wear my heart on my sleeve.

While I’ve known for quite some time that you were never going to materialize in my life again as anything other than someone who drinks “Smurf Piss” alongside me at a bar, I have always hoped that one day we’d end up in a yoga class next to each other and back in an embrace.

I’m talking too much.

Clearly, I’m showing my Eastern upbringing.

Should probably go to bed and write a fucking poem about it in the morning.

I’m being unfair.

But I hope you understand.

Our friendship I value, but I just needed to remind you that I would happily entertain something more with you if ever given the chance.

You spoke to me.

I’m done now.

Get some sleep.

Sorry to burden you with my ramblings.

Boy: you’re ethereal, but I’m not going to Amy Winehouse/Eliot Smith myself over you.

I just harbor this weird feeling that one day you’re going to realize that you really liked me.

In the meantime, I’ll probably eat chicken nuggets and sriracha fries knowing that lesser-than men will love me even if you can’t.

It’s terrible, but at least it’s honest.

And sometimes I just think about how nice it would be to hear you call me “boyfriend.”

Those nights are cold like tonight.

I would change everything and nothing about myself for that.

I’m done.

I’ll expect to hear from you never.

Thank you.

I’m happy with your silence.

I talk too much.

I can’t believe you indulged me this much.

Have a good night, Boy.


And the morning after …

It’s official.

I have to delete you from my phone.

And Facebook.

And I should delete myself from the Castro.

I would say I’m sorry for saying all those things, but I’m not.

I’m mostly just embarrassed that you know them now.

So, now you know I never really wanted to just be your friend.

How I was a sniveling little puppy lusting around the Gayborhood trying to pick up your scent.

Honestly, Boy, I have liked the conversation and the friendship, but here’s the last colon: I’m done.

I’ll always be cordial to you if and when I see you, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I hope it’s not soon.

Sorry I ballooned what for you was probably something so insignificant into so much more.

You, very one-sidedly, meant me much.

Thanks for always being sweet, Boy.

Good luck with everything.

Cape Cod: Smiling (For Amanda and Tim)

Cape Cod: Smiling -For Amanda and Tim I was trying to picture the person I want to be when I'm older, and all I could see was you. I couldn't see your accomplishments or accolades. I couldn't see your body, or its fluctuations. All I could see was the smile on my face that you've carved over the years. It encompasses every other smile I've ever deigned. The smile you've gifted me has been the one of church giggles, Chaplin farce, the moment Dorothy reawakens in Kansas, my first home run, when she hit that high C, first time without training wheels, reading David Sedaris on the plane alone, and seeing a child walk with new feet. I'm smiling just thinking about it. And mostly about you. When I grow up, I don't need to be successful, wealthy, intellectual, able to finish the New York Times crossword, thin, funny, or an astronaut for that matter. When I grow up, I need to know you've grown with me. Then I'll lay down the mirror only to find my reflection in your beautiful face. Smiling. Grown up. Complete.