(a)
you could be so anal about your appearance,
and i love how anatomically correct
you appear
when draped by my sheets,
your adam's apple
your appendages
your ass,
and while you sleep apprehensively
i develop affections for you,
nothing you could appreciate
just a certain admiration amidst actuality.

(b)
something about the way your body swans
from this angle like an angel bending
and our bodies collide
like two gods
searching for truth in one another
this is not an instrument learned and played
nor is it a subject studied and recited,
this is instinct
bare, blank and breath-heavy
as we try ever so diligently
to behave like well-adjusted boys.

(c)
i remember you sometimes like a channel
that i would flip to randomly
when bored
or melancholy
and even when i wanted you to be
something more,
who's kidding who...
most days you're a saturday morning cartoon
celebrating your twenty-fifth anniversary
re-running in syndication,
nothing more.
animated yet stuck in a loop
and there i go changing channels...

(d)
the way your hand moves art like donatello
and the way you can keep secrets
just like
detectives or even more advanced agents,
you defiant little monster
with defense mechanisms galore,
do your dirty deeds and then
draw me a picture painted darkly
and deny me any truth,
these decimal things
you've become so damn good at.

(e)
every reflection bares your
essence, but
how much soul is hiding behind
those eyes,
evasive, enigmatic eyes...
i envision you with far less ego
and far more egress
through non-materialized expression,
and when you look at me
i wonder nothing about what you see,
we've simply had enough
of this elastic tug-of-war
that turned all things experimental
ever so effortlessly, endlessly emotional.

(f)
fourteen. fifty-three. forty-nine.
forever friendships forget to fade
and we wind up like brothers,
remembering fate in numbers,
and further are those words we chose
fighting like foes and former lovers,
what distance has taught us not
is how to forgive what time forgot.

(g)
you take it as a given
just like gravity to the ground,
you the graphic artist
with a graphic sexual appetite,
promise that this time
will be give and take,
glorified and grand,
but the truth is in the way
that you never know how to feel
about anything,
unless it's gorgeous
and it grabs you
and it compliments you gratuitously.

(h)
you blanket hoarder, you bed hog,
something about the way you sleep
has me hoping you can't hear my thoughts
as i lie here hopelessly...
and half way down these heated sheets
hovering between these human bodies
hindsight waits with a sense of humor
like a hoax
like a horoscope
like happenings hinged to haplessness,
and as morning breaks you smile happily
as your hands hone in to holy places.

(i)
the way in which you traveled internationally
for these intimacies
before you knew,
before you had rid yourself of insecurities and idioms,
the way in which you managed to hold on
to all your idiosyncrasies,
albeit in the way you smile
from half a room/world away,
and you are so much like an iceberg,
some infinite amount of you isolated, always hidden
yet it's the way in which you inhabit every inner detail,
leaving those individuals
who try to interpret you
itching at a loss for words.

(j)
the way in which you'd keep yourself
ever so slightly ajar,
just enough for people to feel as though
they could fit comfortably inside you,
and how your jokes and jabs were gestures
meant to justify your love,
you could be such a jerk
you and your ego juxtaposed;
judgmental judge and jury,
keeping everything at arm's length
you could find any justification
to edify your jealousies.

(k)
in the way you kindly chose closed-mouth kisses,
as opposed to tying your tongue in knots,
kissing for you was always with a sense of danger
and knowing that it was never the best idea,
but still you kissed
and kissed
and kissed
until lips like knights would part
and tongues like kings were caught.

(l)
the way your lips always gave so much,
always offering your voice
from your larynx,
the place from which your language launched
after traveling the ladders of your lungs
and delivered here in breaths
that fall from lavender lips
falling upon any willful listener,
even if silence lingered in language's place
there would be no lull, no lag, no loss
for you would never choose to leave
even if you were told to get lost.

(m)
you could be so matter-of-fact,
so quick to correct me
yet you yourself could never be corrected,
you had this mentality
and a loaded mouth full of mantras;
mere ideations that you dreamt of living by,
but you never had to try very hard
for every part of you was massive,
your mouth
your manhood
your mistakes;
massive.

(n)
every night would allow me to see your
body from a new angle, naked,
and there were never any limitations,
i can still recall
the way your neck tasted like salt
and how your nipples lacked the nectar
that i expected from
such a narcissistic god.

(o)
you had this thing with straws,
i remember how more than occasionally
you would bend the top of the straw
over the edge of your glass
and pin it down with one finger
away from your face
then sip,
this in opposition
to all your other oral fixations.

(p)
in every photograph i have of you
you are forever with that look in your eye,
it goes beyond pretty boy skin
beyond your perfect posture
so far beyond your pupils,
it's just this look,
that dares, that perpetuates,
that penetrates and promises,
it's this photogenic look
that poses a plethora of questions
and propagates no answers.

(q)
in catching you off guard
you always proved to be quick-witted;
quick with a come back
and you were always fond of quality quiet time,
which was a quality i guess i admired,
but i'd always ask too many questions
pose too many queries
and you'd always remain quiet,
quite proud to be the questionable one.

(r)
how contained you remained
in the comfort of my passenger seat,
how relaxed with your feet
resting on my dash,
i found things about you in these rare moments
on long rides
when you reserved yourself
from taking any risks,
and we would retro-fit those roads
with rendezvous and reflections
of footprints on windshields.

(s)
how your voice dropped into a whisper
as you remembered how we met, really met
for the first time,
our tongues touching
on the back of someone else's neck
and in a whisper you used the word
soulmate
and from there on we were bound,
searching, scrounging, scathing
for a sign
for satisfaction
for something sensual,
and yet, with you there was always the idea
that what you could not give in heart
you would make up for in saliva, sweat, and semen.

(t)
on your stomach you would lie
my fingers touching tendons in your back,
trying not to tickle
trying to keep you tame
relieving tension
in fluid gestures
from your temples to your toes,
there was more than enough of you
to get tangled in.

(u)
the way you tried so hard not to show emotion,
you were the king of unilateral decisions
and aside from getting things your way
you tried your utmost
to keep certain truths untold
and yet somehow still we ended up
unveiled, unprotected, and uncensored.

(v)
even in the vast vacuum between us
you always had a vernacular
with which you spoke to me,
mostly it was verse
that when expressed
helped share a vision,
but sometimes it was vulgar
with a hint of venom.

(w)
i remember when that ben e. king song
came on the radio
and you were not prepared for my reaction,
i remember
when you heard a poor rendition of it
by some guy in a coffee shoppe
with a poorly tuned guitar,
and i remember
how you were so willing
to admit that it made you think of me,
you were so willing, so wavering,
so wide-eyed, and wholesome.

(x)
x# of reasons why
x never marked the spot,
you were always extra careful
never to get caught
as everything with you
was either
extraordinary,
exaggerated,
or x-rated.

(y)
you were always all about you,
and that's what i remember; you.

(z)
you came into my life like a zephyr
i remember zero details about how
we began
this charade,
but I can recall an unlimited number
of buzzword-like moments,
details so minute they're almost zilch,
i remember how we used to
analyze our zodiacs,
and how often
i could look across any distance at you,
without a zoom lens or a zoetrope,
and recognize you
as a zebra among horses.

07/29/2005

Author's Note: this was a project that started out as something much smaller. it was given to a friend on his twenty-sixth birthday. the unconscious realization came later that there would inevitably be twenty-six pieces. we are no longer friends, but this is still a poem.

Posted on 07/29/2005
Copyright © 2024 Frankie Sanchez