When I was ten-years-old, I met
then President William Jefferson Clinton—Bill, for short.
Frosty cheeked and underdressed, I stood waiting outside
an airline hanger, South Korea, of all places.
Bomber jacket and relaxed grin, I was enthralled.
Quick handshake sent tingles of warmth, outer-body experience.
Mother said, “Wash your hands.” Pretended naiveté.
My first sexual experience said in later years.

∞

The first time I had my heart broken
I wasn’t in love. At least I think.
Yet the pain! Oh the wretched, debilitating pain!
All that time wasted. I’d kick myself today
if that feat were humanly possible, of course.
All the clichés are true: time, space, perspective.
I hate them instinctively: hurry up and wait.
The old man in the sea had patience.

∞

I’m not the story you want to hear—
white, middle-class nuclear family, two kids and all.
But an identity? Now that’s the tricky part.
White: the absence of color, the blandest taste,
produces power and fear—but I’m absent, remember?
Absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder,
not harder or smaller, tighter—oh how I lament!
I grew up in a cardboard box; repeat.

∞

My first kiss was a short, comical relief.
Five years since Bill; I, still holding on,
finally realized he’d moved on (to my dismay!)
It was sweet and genuine. He was eighteen
and told me he loved me. I reciprocate
not knowing what it meant, honestly not caring.
I once tried counting all I’d kissed. de-press-ing;
didn’t feel until twenty (boy I didn’t love).

∞

Dreams are liars. You can’t just walk away
from mental prison fueled by fatigue, desire, Ambien.
Came to me the first time I ever
talked to Eddie. We’d just met. Mutual friend—
something sparked an undistinguishable flame, his & mine.
Kindred or kindling, charged by kind, inquisitive eyes.
There is beauty in a stranger knowing secrets>
Human to human—until we are all ashes.

∞

The couches are not as comfy as television
depicts. Just a room, Kleenex at the ready.
Ten years seems longer, when it’s only twice.
Three “lost” as if I’d simply misplaced them.
Trauma and textbook, 2009 was a bad year.
Grief in waves, peaks and valleys. Mostly peaks—
the hidden mind, once opened, cannot be closed.
Boy! What I have gained! A new life.

∞

The first time I saw my Father cry
we were standing on a grassy patch where
we had once been before. Hugged so tight,
in front of tourists, marble, and granite: monuments
to great men. Before me stood a great
man. Pulled up by bootstraps and ethics, things
long thought forgotten: stockboy to Bigshot—my
American dream. The past, an obstacle, if allowed.

∞

After school I’d explore the forest, uninhibited, fearless
behind the YMCA, my older brother 100 yds away.
The world an oyster, I the shiny pearl.
Secret caverns hidden from view; gushing waterfalls
I never cried, the scrapes and bruises perfunctory.
I wish I could remember more, my youth.
But I merely catch glimpses of blurred figures.
Except fruit-flavored Mentos, a smell sickeningly sweet.