The Vast Uneasy Castle of You

Too much work. Well, maybe it’s not work – that is,
the thing that seems too much. But rather an anxiety
which tinctures, taints and apperceives – anticipates
with dread – whatever’s coming up that seems
by some necessity embedded with, and in, dependence

on performing an activity just so: a bunch of blowsy
verbiage, I know: a means of obfuscating that hot fear
to which you’re fishhooked, speared: the bait you’ve
swallowed which it seems you’re doomed to follow ‘til
its sad unpalatable deadly end. Oh my! – such

passionate theatrics at a time like this! And all because
of one (you thought) unguarded kiss. Which, like
the House of Usher, seems inevitably guaranteed
to topple all your boulders and your balustrades: make
the vast uneasy castle of you fall. You wonder at

the reputation of gay men in cities: how we are supposed
to tackle sex like Advertising turns out ditties: dalliance
with pretty nothings, Christmas balls and stocking
stuffings: jockstrapped to a willing but insouciant attractive
Mike or Joe. Reality: it’s more like Edgar Allan Poe.


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