I Wrote A Twin Cinema Poem About Two Gay Soldiers In Wwi

Neighborhood cats (III)

Outlines of two alligators that slept through the rain.

An early morning in the company of a few European hares/fältharar. Värmland, Sweden (July 17, 2020).

close to the knives, david wojnarowicz

CDs are obsolete because the sound quality sucks

yeah sucks me good and hard through my jorts

picture late june. benson in ripped and frayed denim shorts and what's left of a metal tee he tore up to be comfy. armpits out. fresh cut on the hair. legs all scraped to hell bc he waded through some brambles this morning after a stray dog. randy at his shoulder, all bitten lips and blue tongue from a sucker he's been working over for half an hour. baseball cap. dirty white t-shirt because he had to mow the lawn before he could go play. smells like grass and diesel and sunscreen, freckles all over his cheeks and arms. still pale as fuck though, especially compared to benson. they haunt the drink aisle in the grocery store for fifteen minutes because randy's indecisive and benson's not picking for him this time and they're not leaving until he makes a choice. benson bounces his raspberry arizona in his hands and patiently watches randy peruse every single option. he's got all the time in the world for this pretty boy who outshines the sun. they've got nowhere to be, nothing to do. nothing but time. randy finally picks a pint of chocolate milk and benson nods once, walks him all the way to the car with his hand on the small of his back. they drive to the river with the windows down, sit on the bridge and throw rocks in the water til it gets dark. benson drives him home and they stop for a bite on the way. randy gets to make this decision too--anything but burgers. benson parks across the street, cuts the lights. puts the armrest up. when randy finally has to go or face the wrath of his mother, benson gets out of the car, pushes him up against the passenger's side and kisses him goodnight. takes fifteen minutes. randy sneaks up to bed with sun on his cheeks and cigarette smoke in his hair. benson leans against the car and watches until the light goes off upstairs.

"Don't you wish god would rip from the seams, grip our hands tell us who we should be, stop these men from reducing god to wood for burning" GONE, SHE GETS IT.