But sleeping naked makes me think I should
be having sex—that a body should be
in my bed, doing, with me, what it would,
as opposed to a predictable me,
doing with me what I imagine I’d
want, if, somehow, the tables were turned.
Her desire, her love, is what I’m denied,
forced to rely on the orgy i discerned
when recovering various parts of me—
parts, however, that would only exist,
in real life, at the occasional party,
parties which I, half time, would resist,
living, as I do, a life of solitude.
So, I think, I shouldn’t sleep entirely
naked, dreaming of what would be crude,
if, that is, it keeps me awake. Show me,
instead, dear heart, a real relationship,
defined, without expectation, by us,
author and audience of this ship,
no false pretenses, no boredom, no fuss,
only that which makes sleep expedient,
and runs parallel to His oncoming day.
So, I’ve been digging a little, ill-spent,
trying to find the cause of my dismay,
and, as I do, veering in a direction
that my parents would never condone.
But each and every generation
must correct the path that it would own,
benefactor of the future, those to come.
So I paint my nudes, and I don my sex,
allowing, only, for His ransom,
that which we’d need to know, if the checks
were in the mail, and His opinion mattered.
Choose to love, then, what I was and am,
custodian of a shy and scattered
brain, consumer of His sultry dram—
happiness and acceptance by all, for all.
So I shower at night for two now twain,
washing off the lot that I enthrall,
becoming the actor that won’t remain
when his next project would stay a course
that, in the long run, was not meant to be.
So I exert, for my health, every force,
assuming, as I do, my place in history.