His Perfect Form


His Perfect Form


how he             slices

thru waves arms slashing thru mirror

                                    after mirror plunge & turn & glide

up slice again—


in the showers,

                        his lovely long calves & thighs,

                                    small buns high up, hips grasped

                                                in dreams for thrust & sigh—


silken skin over

                        six-pack tight & O what delight

                                    must lie there, hands moving

                                                over soft flesh, that shy


smile over

his shoulder, light above clouds,

                        tousled hair thrown back, wet streams

                                    flowing all down his perfect form—





scrawny old man greying

flesh, thin legs, turns his

body away that others might


not see, yet peers out of his

corner watching the parade of

man & boyflesh as it passes. 


he listens but will not talk

when Adonis calls him,

turns quickly to draw &


unfold his underwear from

his gymbag, his buttcheeks

quivering.  there are scars


                                                in his side—some old wound,

some surgery lost in his private

story.  finally dressed, he


scratches his pate, clutches

his gymbag, closes the locker

& makes his way thru naked


boys & men, almost unseen,

pausing to peer back as if

rueful he could not break


his silence, nor they enter his.


Full Lips Singing Hello


                                    a slender boy

                                                turns his nearly naked

                                                            torso & laughs


                                                            dark curls falling

                                                across his forehead—

                                    blue eyes look up to you—


                                                fair skin flushes,

                                                            slender hips & firm

                                                buttocks, turning


                                    as he drops his towel

                                                to reveal

                                                            his fine large cock in


                                                its nest of dark hair. 

                                    he dresses quickly,

                                                turns, winks, &


                                                            hustles out where he

                                                meets a friend, a

                                    blonde boy, wiry,


                                                hands in pockets,

                                                            large eyes, full lips

                                                singing hello. 



What Men You Be


whadda racket—

young boys playing snap-ass

with wet towels


tumble thru the lockerroom,

skinny stumps swinging

as they bank & flash into


the showers thru crowds of

steaming bodies all shapes until

crashing against the


big one, he of the pork-pink

gut who gets 'em by the necks

& swings 'em


gasping, who in hell you tryin'

to kill—laughter all around—

great bristles in his dilated nostrils,


his gut a rolling fleshscape

with fine white-blonde hair from

crotch to navel, delicately up


between bulging manbreasts—O,

he says, what men you be,

slow it down & learn to live.  .




                                    After workout


after workout:  his face is unremarkable, his voice

a chatter of platitudes & biblical quotes, yet

his penis hangs achingly low, its huge barrel


a lovely pink, swollen even limp, its head curving

thru its ellipse to the cupid’s bow where the lines,

lovely & delicate as the curves in a lily’s flower,


join.  others come & go, yet this his flower

is a work of art, worthy of lips & tongue, an icon

of tenderness for a heart aching & charged.



                                    He is indeed


                                                            lovely as he swaggers in,

                                                swinging his

                                    hips & arms,

                                                            singing to himself, dark eyes

                                                flashing as he

                                                            pulls off his

                                    pants & dances

                                                                        up to the mirror,

                                                            posing as others

                                    dress & talk & slam locker doors:

                                    there is

                                                no hint of that sorrow within,

                                    the agony as his love

                                                            stepped out, his night of


                                    gazing out the empty window where only

                                                            the full moon hung low

                                                & deep night’s cars

                                    passed silently:

                                                            now there’s only

 perfect thighs, long

                                                legs, lips to sigh for,

                                    his thin torso,

                                                            hand brushing

thru his hair—

                                    O the songs

                                    this boy could raise

in a poet’s dream, this young singing sigh.