Stephen's Bar: In Three Shots

I can taste the mistakes of my predecessors on the rim of this shot glass.
This Jameson smacks of Jody, Dylan, and Mario.
Jody was a sweet girl.
She wore grapefruit lip balm and leggings with a skirt on top.
Her only problem came when she confused the pool cue for a stripper's pole.
That's when she met Dylan.
He played pool from happy hour until someone like Jody walked in.
Four hours.
Three beers.
Two dollar tip.
One chance to convince Jody he wasn't a creep.
From the taste of this shot, citrus and salty sweat on the same side, Dylan was convincing.
He convinced Jody he rarely played.
Accomplice bartender plying both of their egos into sharing the same oversized pour.
But, just before their ambitions dropped to the floor, Mario licked his lips and conjured a better threshold to carry them over.
Mario washed dishes at Jody's bar.
He made the mistake of taking Dylan on in pool twice.
He came to this bar not because he liked it, but because they didn't ask for ID.
You could ask.
But he'd never have anything to show.
Other than scarred hands and a flush face, Mario's passport was riddled with heat blisters and minor cuts.
Jody never led him on.
She was nice to everyone.
And she was good with names.
She had no idea what her hospitality hosted or harbored in Mario's lonely heart.
Dylan was a scumbag.
Mario was desperate.
Jody was just looking for a good time.
One of them had to get hurt.
If only so two of them could feel pleasure.
Mario should have gone home.
Home never carded.
Home never had a posse.
Home never tolerated the empty promises of a tart.
Jody was anything but home.
She was a hole.
But not Mario's.
Tonight, she was Dylan's.
Or at least Dylan's charm.
He wanted to wear her confusion like a necklace.
She wanted to know what little spoon felt like.
Mario wanted to know the curves and caress of a woman secure and procuring his manhood.
All three would be let down.
All three should have gone home.
All three thought the dive was easy enough.
None were prepared for the reparations paid for not acknowledging the brilliance of a juke box rife with Sam Cooke and Prince.
Dylan waited in the restroom.
Mario perched around the pool table.
Jody talked to anyone who would listen.
No one left happy.
Everyone left.
Dylan went to Brooklyn and got up to teach 9-year olds algebra.
Jody went to Queens to meet her roommates and laugh with the immigrant bartender.
Mario didn't go anywhere but down.
He lost the opportunity to prove to Jody he could wash more than her glasses but rather polish her reputation.
Jody probably went home with a Greek guy questioning his sexuality.
Dylan felt his hand draw near, screamed in private ecstasy, and pretended that one worth marrying was on his right.
Jody just hummed a Portishead song knowing she was hummus and light years away from anyone's truth.
So no one went home happy, but few went home.
Those who did saw how destiny is created not earned.
Jody, Dylan, and Mario were destined to find one another.
At least two were destined to know pain.
All three did.
And then the pillow of a bar that barely wipes down itself seemed as good a place as any to take a nap.
We are awake.
We are not taking a cue from anyone.
We are a remix that everyone would pay juke box money for.
We are not lying to ourselves, or the ones who pay.
Give me Dinah.
Give me Etta.
Give me better than this pretend.
Hope Mario makes it home alright, if he ever wakes up.

Stephen's Bar: In 3 Shots

Next Stop

If they let you smoke on the train, I'd ride it all day long.
Life happens in the moments between stops.
People getting on and off and getting off to get it on.
I always wonder why people pay for television when the best shows are unveiled under the hospital lighting of the A train.
Relationships beginning and ending in the space between Columbus Circle and Penn Station.
I have fallen in love sometimes three times over in the span of one ride.
That boy that just came from the gym with a childlike nerve, knowing how good he looks with the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, making eyes at you while he pretends to be disinterested.
Or the couple whose conversation had become tiresome somewhere between Jackson Heights and Hell's Kitchen, yet your presence now has them talking about the possibility of spicing things up a bit.
Then, there's the man so striking that you forget which was your stop.
You start to question how long you could follow him to see where he exits, and consequently how long it would take you to get back to where you were going in the first place.
It never happens on your day off.
He never gets off at your stop.
You never end up in the same coffeeshop moments later, attempting to work up the nerve to ask if this seat is taken.
And if it did happen, then taking the train wouldn't be as much fun anymore.
You'd have reached your final destination, and the fantasy is over.
You could ride freely without headphones or distractions because now you get on and off by memory.
Its obvious when you've been riding too long.
Close your eyes, and you're there.
Eventually, you open your eyes.
The coffeeshop is full of angst and 30 variations of the next great American novel in different states of development.
There's an OKCupid date heading to disaster.
And he's not there.
He transferred.
I guess that's why we have Missed Connections.
Maybe he's at another coffeeshop writing the same thing about you.
Maybe he's at a bar telling his friends how stupid he was for not saying something to you when he had the chance.
Maybe he's at Kinko's having business cards made for the next time he sees you.
Maybe he's sitting on his fire escape writing tragic poetry about how yet again he let one get away.
Next time, I'll make the connection.
What's the worst that could happen?
You compliment someone by telling him he's handsome?
He could be straight.
At least you're on the train and he probably won't hit you.
And if the embarrassment is too much to bear, all you have to do is wait for the next stop.

Back to the Scene

Remember what Ani said about the mistakes of our generation fading like the radio if we drove out of range?

Sitting here, having gone to both extremes of off the grid, I know now I want those mistakes.

My cranberries never tasted so sweet as when I picked them from the source.

It took a trip to California to realize it's not a red herring, but rather a mullet that's red.

And everything I've read, I've learned.

And everything I've learned has shown me that finding Orion's Belt in the night sky is truth.

I've tread each coast until my fingers, toes, and nostrils were raw.

Now, I'm in flight again.

My station and soundtrack are coming back into range.

Even through the static, I can still make out the encroaching beats of West African tribes, misplaced mariachi, 7th Avenue saxophones, and the angst of Alphabet City.

I'll make more mistakes before the song is over, but it's like Katie said:

"I needed to make enough mistakes to deserve something this good."

Baited

Maybe the next time I cast out, I'll reel in something other than the bait.

I could have sworn I felt him bite.

He was definitely tugging.

And then, we were hugging.

I felt the weight of him as we struggled to find calm in the sea of comforters.

Those were definitively fingers that tickled me, and not some rogue seaweed or algae.

This was not invention.

This was intention.


I want to be anchored to something other than a bar stool.

I want your heart to hold strong at high tide.

When thunder claps in the sky above, I want the crashing of our thighs against one another to echo back beyond the din.

I use the lateral scar across your chest to help me find true north.

Half a league up from your sternum and directly below your nose .

Those lips are Orion's Belt.

I could find them from any shore.

Some nights, when the clouds obstruct my view, I reach out and trace the Big Dipper on your left arm to navigate me back on course.

Then, I take Orion's Belt off with my teeth.


Often, I wonder if I've been at sea for too long.

Should I find a mooring and post up in a harbor of content.

But I like the taste of rain water.

The salt does wonders for my skin.

And my eyes are everyday oceans in which I hope you'll bathe.

I enjoy the comfort of swimming under the sea of comforters with you.

Because laying here with you, I am the bait.

This time, I couldn't get away.

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.