Ode to the Good Ones \\ My Pleasers \\ Fuck You Whore \\ Trans Vibrations \\ Cockslut

Ode to the Good Ones

To the curly-haired giant with big belly charm,
the Comic-Con traveller with circumspect arms.
To the rich man in jeans, 
and the poor man in love 
costume jewelry gifts, 
paper rain from above. 

Orchids and perfumes without expectation,
Cheek kisses, timid anticipation. 

To guys who tip big 
Atop ATM fees 
—In American dollars— 
God damn, I praise thee! 

The lost lamb who found 
Sodom’s glowing nude gates; 
afraid of talking to girls 
but brings roses on dates 
(pleasanter than slick men by the oily stage,
Investment bros, Armani suits, 
acutely middle aged). 

Praise the man 
with the small cock: 
You are beautiful. 

Boy with breakup eyes 
puffy, ready to be lost 
kindred thread 
Buried, luscious wet hedonism 
Wishing to be dead, 
Seeking to be found. 

Here’s to the son: dad’s gonna make you a man.
Unsatisfied marriage, finding power where he can
“that dress makes you look fat” dad chortles,
You look away---
Mortified, vowing to 
never be him someday. 

Pink-cheeked hockey boys, 
This shaking kid talks big game 
two songs/forty dollars, 
fumbled secrets, whispered shame: 
fantasies of bro’s dick, 
“Please don’t tell.” 

Blushing hard-on 
awkward sweatpants 
Maple jersey and 
the game goes on. 

To the gay men with wives 
and the world on their shoulders, 
Who fear dying alone 
and their kids getting older. 

Salty violet carpets 
Decades of broken hearts, 
illicit orgasms in 
peeled-paint booths, 
ripped vinyl 
used condoms; 
Faceless men bow to the clamshell goddess. 

The ones who break shackles forged of masculinity,
The ones flogged and whipped into infinity,
The ones who are freed 
by ropes and a ballgag— 
Even if just for an hour. 

The ones who cum loud, the ones who cum quiet,
the ones who don’t cum at all— 
so I can break for a snack 
(instead of cleaning the wall). 

Blessed are the men who shower.
The diabetic bearing cupcakes; 
The one with styrofoam boxes 
Shrimp fried rice offerings, 
Soothing tired, eight-hour-platformed-toes, baby
powder to soak up the sweat: 
A welcome break. 
Praise the foot fetishists. 

To the bi girls and the straight girls 
Who tip shyly onstage. 

To the coroner who cried, 
balls cupped in my palm, 
thanking me for being alive. 

Those who choose humanity above 
misogynist slurs, condescending church groups—
We don’t want your pamphlets, we want respect.
Bitch, we are Mary fucking Magdalene 
Take your shame 
elsewhere. 
Save yourself. 

We are the holy whores 
Who pull g-strings, 
Wars fought and treaties written 
on our behalf, 
nuclear families blown up and new worlds from the ash, We make the world possible. 
We make the world verdant. 
Ode to the good ones who remember our lineage. 

The good ones 
who see us. 
Who don’t want to be thanked. 

The good ones who 
don’t listen to their fathers, 
drop of sweet medicine in 
toxic sludge.
The soft ones, 
paper-thin flowers, 
diamonds in the bullshit. 

Those with hearts on their sleeves
and a pocketful of silver. 

This is an ode to the good ones,
Carrying our prayers 
For a kinder future.

My Pleasures

Fuck you Whore

Trans Vibrations

Cockslut