The world is burning, so I just had to make time for another sonnet

about another boy,  for that one time in Wat Pho, beginning with a line from Angkarn Kalayanapong

To the hell of ever-lasting fire I’ll follow you

had I! believed! in some divine power 

who, in all of the worlds & all the lives they toy with, 

wouldn’t, at some point in time (c’mon) break 

into some kind of smile, to finally, finally,

after battering our goddamn hearts, tell us

oh so gently, It’s alright…   —so I guess 

this is the closest thing we’d ever have: 

watching you sweaty & all disheveled after

throwing เซียมซี at the temple, praying for that boy 

who, after your ~20 hr. flight, wouldn’t even come out

for you in the sweltering afternoon, I tell you

still, it’s alright, grinning as I fan your flushed face

with my open hand, & I—even now, as I write this down—wait

The sonnet is a good form—a great form!—for queerness

because how can you talk about kissing in an American park,

for example, one sunny Sunday afternoon, out there

in the public, with people who were probably minding

(but still???) their own businesseseses, us getting on it

without any warning, right after milk tea after dimsum,

before the two fat pigeons pecking by our feet

til one of them decides to get serious—Ok!—then hops 

on top of the other, as on the other side of the earth

a storm ravages my hometown, even the thought of w/c

can’t make me pass up on this sudden electric 

tongue shoving down my throat, can’t ever blame me

if I’d go about this irony on & on & on & on &

so: praise these just-14 lines! praise these perplexing times! 

praise what even I can’t understand! & O—, to live with that 

“Lampara / ang iyong mukha”

is what I told you after 

making love, trying to

tell you whatever it was 

I caught midthrust: 

your face a lamp lit, because 

angelic is too unfair (won’t say 

to whom), & beautiful

too serious. I’m serious

but just quite, because 

an afternoon’s an afternoon

& that’s that: a lamp lit

with oil running out 

in time, runs out time, 

to be looked at. 

Tenderness takes time

& teeth. Some talk to me talk to me no

shit. As in gentle, gentler still, jaw to jaw, no tongue needed, pure

meat. As in nibbling as nibble gets

until gnawing. As in, tear me a flesh until flesh is there

barely. As closely as closest

ever gets, so go, go break

bones, suck down these

marrows, all these virtues, go, save me

no soul. As in, finally

as finality may finally seem, you

know, talking, just talking, typical

brute, all honesty, fucking

softness, as softness hopefully gives. Like how I am

not wearing anything now. Like please speak

Happiness

In the season finale of my life (so far), I order 

a box of pizza, finish it all by myself & 

realize: as it turns out, I didn’t really love you 

as much. Ok, so maybe… perhaps? But still

there’s no surprise in that, no suddenly piercing

sunlight, no children singing in the background, 

O happiness, O happiness, no low-hanging metaphors 

like that. But sure—music in a minor key 

(but not so much) would be nice, even without

a director cuing me to turn to Look!—look 

outside!, because this could just be the money shot? 

It’s highly likely there’s no god, but you’ve got to

give it to a guy who’s trying to see signs 

from none. Watching himself, over & over. From afar.