Love is always a virgin
Keith always insisted they had a connection.
The trajectory of my mother’s last years was not unlike what was finally to be his own.
They both headed south like programmed seasonal geese into jet engines taking off from God’s airport. Neither jet nor psychosis was willing to alter course.
Their broken feathers scattered all around me while Moon’s drifted across the globe.
I showed him a picture of my mother once; she was beautiful by any standard. Someone had snapped it in the decade of the flowered smock. He was instantly smitten. Over tours, he would bring her up to me out of nowhere.
The smock dress, a product of the 1950s, was the church’s last effort to stifle any hint of a woman’s sensuality. But unfortunately for repression, the more one tries, the hotter girls get. I owe all my sexual fantasies to those inhibited Puritans who raised me.
When my mother died, conveniently between Who tours, he took it in pace and reluctantly gave back my picture.
He did, on occasion, sidle up to me to ask if I had any luck yet in finding a flowered smock in his size.
How fun it is
to say again
To repeat the preferred
episodes of my life
over and over.
I remind me
of how wonderful
I have been at times.
Wonderful and happy.
I have had sadnesses,
but those are now
all by themselves
There are still the quarrels
over whether time
was wasted .
I think we all have those.
My life is floating timelessly
on the petals of my past.
Memories are all you can ever be.
Blindingly handsome gay men are mankind’s only effective retaliation against women.
At my most recklessly honest and envious, I have to accept that my son is my only opportunity to see a future for which I can not last.