PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Anatoly, emigre, a Russian Orthodox Christian, now a fashion model;

ballcap backwards, shoes and shirt abandoned much earlier;

baggy, distressed jeans and crew socks---two-toned gray:

toes and heels light gray, the rest of the fabric much darker.

More than the camera has fallen in love with him, a "homo," as

Mother would have said.

J-Called

On the eve of Tuesday, November twenty-third,

nineteen seventy-six, I thought of the

first night of my involuntary exile, on the

narrow, uncomfortable bed of my exile, as

Thursday, September Ninth bled over the stabbing

stroke of midnight into Friday, the Tenth.  In

abject silence I wept, with my hand over my

mouth to effect silence; and my eyes leaking more tears

than I had shed over several previous.  The

contour of my randomly assigned roommate's body,

prone in the other bed, raucously snored.  In less

than seventy-two hours, he would declare to me on the

staircase to the Dining Hall that we should never be

friends of any social degree, and

we have not been for nearly half a century.

I wept, for the separation from BlueShift and our community---

local channel twenty-two on the c.b.

Starward-Led

This felt like a dolorous perversity, and

upon the Love I felt for BlueShift it was a ludicrous blasphemy,

imposed by parental authoriity that

glowed like lethal radiation from each building of the University

campus.  Yet, when, still sleepless, I watched Friday morning's dawn

break (as the transition had, I thoght, already broken me),

I discovered---with great relief and very happily---that

Starwatcher had not abandoned me; Starwatcher was not gone.

Clad in baggy slacks,

Hoshi pours iced oolong from

a cup through a sheer

sock he took off, and into

my mouth.  I will need refills.

Kyakuchuu