What does it mean to be "as right as rain"?
Rain can seem capricious and mean.
Sometimes miserly, sometimes unsparing,
Refusing a meager gift to the parched prairie
And then pounding the mountains into rubble.

The sky may cloud over, its expanse as closed and thick as lead,
And yet the downpour might be delayed,
So that the tender shoots will droop with fatigue,
So that the livestock will whine with frustration,
So that the farmer will curl himself with curses.

But the rain is not concerned.
It is neither generous nor stingy,
It is neither sweet nor cruel.

When that relief finally arrives,
When the heavens squeeze themselves,
And droplets fat and heavy as coins
Smash into the soil with a thousand ringing blows ...
It can seem like too little, too late,
Or too much, too soon.

Its pounding appulse is not a benevolence.
Its sudden release is not a rage.
Its absence is not a mood.

The rain is always as right as rain.
It is rather our own thirsts, our own saturations,
Our own expectations that disappoint us.

Leave it to a faggot -
To be crushed by a collapsed soufflé,
To be skewered by a careless remark,
To fluff a frothy meringue of drama
From a handful of vagaries,
From a few rancid words.

Leave it to a faggot -
To drown and sputter and drown again,
To resign like Virginia, her pockets full of rocks,
Rising and sinking and rising in the current,
With her clenched jaw,
With her clenched fist,
With her fixed determination to stay under.

What is it with faggots and misery,
A resentment that burns ceaselessly,
A glowering coal of spite,
A combustible sadness,
An explosion in slow motion?

What is it with faggots and theatrics,
That keeps our anger brightly lit,
A row of footlights for our suffering,
A spot of amber for our little deaths,
A burst of applause for our martyrdom?

What if I just stopped dying? Already,
I've spent my stock of useless threats,
I've blasted my mines of agony,
I've drained my lakes of doom.

By suppertime,
I could be empty, clean, promising,
As smooth as a sheet of paper.

On the platform, by a speeding train,
I see your face through every window
Flashing by in a blur or a streak -
You are as unobtainable and as brief as a ghost.

And then you dissolve, as the cars slow,
Into businessmen and grandmothers,
Your details fading into theirs,
For you do not ride this train.

You do not ride this train, but I look for you there.
You do not round my corner, but I look for you there.
You do not climb my stairs, but I look for you there.

You've become an apparition
That haunts every doorway
That sits on every step
That is always about to ring my buzzer
That is always about to post a letter
That is always near but never here.

How will you come to me?
Do I need a spooky seance, in candlelight and fog,
Do I need a white-haired medium, speaking in tongues,
Some invisible old grudges knocking the table about,
Some invisible families sputtering the flames,
Some low moans, rattling chains, a puff of smoke?
If I summon you, silently, will you come to me?

Above ground, impatient,
I burn through the hours like a forest fire,
Waiting, pacing, fumbling, wishing.
My phone stays silent and still,
like a block of wood ...
full of potential, but left unused.

The calendar is unmarked, virginal,
each day an empty white field
open for your plantings.
Are you free tonight?
Are you free tomorrow?
Are you free for me
As I am free for you?

Friends whine about my absence,
My obligations mount, the house dust thickens,
and yet I stand with my stave, fending off all comers,
waiting and dying and fighting
for you to ask me out.

Come on, come on, don't keep me in this fugue,
This thick haze of desire and hope and confusion.
The moon is eclipsed, the stars are glittering,
My heart is a brimming cistern.
Will you come to me?

Tough Guys being sexy are sometimes neither "tough" nor "sexy".

So I was watching some Tough Guy homo porn recently. You know ... studying it for the high production values, the nuanced characterizations, the gorgeous cinematography, the sparkling repartee, and well-considered sound design, et cetera. But one scene in particular stood out for me as a perfect example of the amped-up masculinity that passes for "rugged" these days.

In this fantasy scenario, the two lead characters were both dressed as "leather cops", and they were doing the kinds of things that Tough Guys like to do in Tough Guy homo porn. They both held fat smoldering cigars, licking them suggestively, helpfully underlining the symbolic linkage with their erections. Just two cops inhaling and exhaling and sucking and swearing ... because that's what real Tough Guys do. Their dialogue was mostly a back and forth of "Fuck yeah" or "Shit yeah", as they alternated between smoking their cigars and smoking each other. But it became clear over time that the voluminous cigar smoke was irritating both of them. It was also clear that they couldn't figure out how to simultaneously fondle a Presidential while massaging a cock AND twisting a cartoonishly engorged nipple. I was rolling my eyes, and saying to the screen, "PLEASE, just choose one or the other. Yes, yes, okay, cigar = phallic symbol, I GET IT ... now can you two steroid-soaked faggots lose the props and just get down to business?"

They kept arranging themselves in a variety of "manly" attitudes ... hips slung, biceps bulging, jaws thrust out, tits inflated, brows knit, eyes dead ... and they somehow seemed to be competing against one another in some kind of butch pageant, rather than actually engaging in any meaningful amorous contact. Their sexplay became a series of ridiculously "dominant" poses, further heightened with all these accoutrements of masculinity ... leather motorcycle hats, nightsticks, aviator sunglasses (worn in a underlit police station?), prop guns, boots, fake badges, cigars. A pas de deux of stances, slaps, grunts, and grips.

Anyway, after the dramatic climax, one of them (let's call him Tough Cop A) whipped out a small digital camera, and said to the other (Tough Cop B), "I wanna take a picture of you sucking my big fat dick". But now that they had both ejaculated, the tone of the scene had already became softer, friendlier, less ... uh ... theatrical. The cigars were left to smolder in a nearby ashtray. And Tough Cop A was having a difficult time managing the camera, as Tough Cop B patiently waited, blinking, with the rapidly withering pecker of Tough Cop A crammed up under his moustache. Why was this happening? Did the director fall asleep in his chair, and fail to yell "CUT!"? Did the editor think this was pertinent "character development", or did he just need to pad out the ending?

The videocamera kept rolling as Tough Cop A struggled lamely to figure out how to take a picture. Then, exasperated, he said in a perfectly nancy, lisping whine, stamping his foot ... "If I only could make this silly thing WORK!".

Okay, Franklin Pangborn, you have successfully killed my erection.
In one moment of genuine Grade-A pansiness, this entire macho charade was deflated.
Gimme the Brawny Guy, please, with his flannel shirt and '70s haircut.
These 21st Century Tough Guys are a bunch of sissies.

In watching “Ziegfield Girl” (1941, Robert Z. Leonard), I’ve been struck by the disparity in screen charisma between the three chief actresses … Judy Garland, Hedy Lamarr, and the blank-faced horror of Lana Turner. It goes without saying that the nineteen year old Judy is incandescently vivid, practically bursting out of the screen with youthful energy, and Hedy Lamarr is … well, Hedy Lamarr is predictably very gorgeous and very robotic. HOWEVER, the inexplicable vacuum of Lana Turner’s “screen presence” deserves a separate analysis.

For much of the film’s 132 minutes, we’re expected to regard her as a SERIOUS DRAMATIC ACTRESS, chiefly for her questionable talents of having very nice tits and an astonishing ability to walk up and down flights of stairs. She’s really expected to do nothing more than wear ridiculous Follies costumes (complete with stuffed birds and wired spangles), be haughty and aloof towards Jimmy Stewart (who could possibly resist HIM?!?), and then succumb unconvincingly to alcoholism and promiscuity. Oh yes, and to negotiate staircases. LOTS AND LOTS of staircases. With books balanced on her head. With feathers sticking out of every conceivable part of her anatomy. While drunk. While dying. While “acting”. With dozens of other showgirls and by herself. At the “climax” of the film, she’s been thrown out of the Follies for being a drunken whore … her startling lack of dramatic range, dancing or singing skills, or even an evident PULSE apparently not being as much of an issue. When she shows up at the theatre, dying of some unspecified but clearly non-deforming illness, she gets all weepy and defeated at little Judy’s inevitable success as the singing star of the show. Realizing that she’s been kicked to the curb, she escapes from her seat, sniffles majestically, and finds herself at the top of … you guessed it … a very long flight of stairs. The music swells to FRENCH REVOLUTION proportions, and the camera glides down inch by agonizing inch, worshipping her as she … get ready now … WALKS DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS … ONE! LAST!! TIME!!! With every step, she wears a new “expressive” geometry of her immaculately groomed eyebrows, simultaneously indicating pride, noble suffering, and … oh, I don’t know … constipation? Finally, at the bottom, she collapses into a well-dressed heap of expensive fabric, hair, and histrionics. Unbelievable. I almost wet myself laughing. Judy once said of her, “Talking to her is like talking to a very beautiful vase.” Yes, dear, we know EXACTLY what you mean.

On the terrace, regarding the park,
Waiting for our date,
Waiting for your late feet
To skip down the stairs,
Behind me, before me, around me.

Trying to look relaxed,
As nonchalant as a supermodel
As tranquil as a monk.

But nervously shifting my pose and patting my hair
And reading the same page of my book
Over and over and over again,
Trying to pretend the words
Are as interesting as you might be.
The bare trees rustle,
The birds all twitter,
My prayer withers on the vine.

Anticipation killing me by inches:
Ninety muscles humming,
Two nostrils flaring,
Four fingers drumming,
Five sticks of gum and a churning lust
Turning every minute into a small holocaust.

Every footfall whips my head around,
Breaks my cool repose.
But you fail to materialize.
I see only old ladies and bag ladies and pregnant ladies
Shuffling about with their private purposes.

How long have I waited here,
To hug you, to smell your hair,
To sink into your eyes, to feel our tummies touch,
To stroke your fine wrist with one bent finger,
To drink up your life like some warm nourishing soup?

I’m so curious, and so eager,
And it’s getting cold outside
While I wait for you.

Do I look hungry?
Do I look lonely?
Can you see my sadness?
Can you see the dreams
That burn in my eyes like two little stars?
Will you hold my hand?
Will you hold my hand?


How long can I wait here,
With my stomach churning,
With my heart in my throat,
Hoping against all hope that
You will think me pretty
You will think me smart
You will light up at the sight of me
Like a Roman Candle in the dark.

I’m just about to walk away,
And shake my head at my foolishness,
And shake my head at my idiot wish,
When a soft voice closes my eyes, turns me slowly around,

And there you are
And there you are
And there you are.

2/10/08