call-boy

call-boy

rolled over &
under mammoth balding bulk
laboring into port
like a rudderless scow,
he chews visions.

himself as Ganymede,
spread-eager-eagled
for god-heads and gods

or Puerto Rican movie cops
plunging & rising
in motorcycle roaring
bolero rhythms

or counts water-spots on the wall
in metronomic time

or spends money not yet
safe in designer jeans.

the hour is eternal.

 
circa 1980’s

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About elrondsilvermaul

I never know what to say about myself. I let what I write try to speak as to who I am. I can only add, here, that I am 72, live in a nursing home, am twenty years a cancer survivor, and identify as a gay male. I intend to use this blog as storage for poems? written over the long years (and still being written). This does not preclude other uses.
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