Disappearing

Foremost in my mind right now is how telling interviewees the topic before the interview can ruin the journey. I intend these interviews to be journeys. When I simply picked up the phone, called unsuspecting friends and said, "Hey, can I talk to you about something," we went on a journey. They didn't have time to think about how to answer, what to say, or how far to go. No time to finesse. With one exception--a poet--everyone has agreed to participate in this project. No one's balked.

Every "artist" type has given me stylized versions of their stories--except one generous guy who shared still-jagged stories about his father and sexual practices that emanate from those childhood memories; he also taught be about chainmail. Today, I interviewed a poet. His stories were compelling but I felt he was holding back a lot, delivering his stories a little too pat, formed, precise. Perhaps it's because he's a poet and has had years to find and hone the right language and cadences to sound so assured. What kinds of poems can I write given such assurances? What inspires me is uncertainty. 

A qualitative research class I took in graduate school serves me some in all this. I learned strategies to, more or less, remove or diminish the researcher's presence in the field. While I don't want to do that with this project completely because I NEED to be in conversation with these men, the less space I take, the more their stories fill the frame.

Queer Open Mic at Modern Times

Tonight, for the first time in many years, I read at an open mic. The queer open mic at Modern Times bookstore was laid back and cordial. I went first with "Salvation," inspired by a tender man whose leather play and light S&M flow from the various distances between he and his state trooper father. The cheerfully distracting Trans March passed outside as I read but, according to someone in the audience, the poem still made an impact.

The featured poet was the award-winning Lucky 7, a slam poet based in the East bay and the captain of the Berkeley Poetry Slam team.

Baruch Porras-Hernandez (who would later read a poem that opened the floor) asked me to read a second time (considering the distraction earlier). I read my newest work from feti(sh)ame, "Question for Dolly Parton" (working title), a meditation on the gay men I admired growing up.

I'm looking forward to connecting more with these folks.

Stereotypes

Yesterday, I shared some of the latest poems with two local writers. They considered some of the poems "garish," hawking tired stereotypes of gay men. Furthermore, they believed if these poems were about straight people, the response would be "so what?" One went further and said she'd read other gay writers who've considered these very issues.

I asked these two straight black women if they felt slightly uncomfortable with the idea of gay men and the appetites so apparent in these poems. They both acknowledged some discomfort and inability to connect with the subject matter.

Earlier yesterday, in response to me saying "I don't want to be a cliché," (in my writing or as a person) a colleague responded, "Clichés exist for a reason. They show shared, widespread human experiences."

All this got me thinking.

While I would like for anyone to read these poems and connect on some level, that's highly unlikely. One person's tired stereotype or cliché is another's lived experience.

jubilat

"Uncut," a poem inspired by one of my earliest interviews, will be published in jubilat. I googled "smegma and poetry" and came across this. I'm not the first to write a poem about smegma.

Castrati

It dawned on me that a poem I recently published has to do with a fetish. Castrati were around for centuries and, despite relative acceptance in public and, in many instances, downright exaltation, they were examples of fetishes gone too far. I'm making a judgment here because this was done to children. They had no say in something that would change their bodies forever.

Someone decided long, long ago, to suspend--in time--a boy's prepubescent voice so a man's throat could grow around it and create an otherworldly sound. I dedicate my poem to Alessandro Moreschi. You can hear him.

Breath

Someone I interviewed recently sent me this about David Carradine's death and the larger implications of shame and danger in acting out fetishes. I'm fascinated by the phrase "erotic breath play." It's voluntary strangulation.

In the wake of Carradine's death, another interviewee ("N") recalled how a guy mistook N's solid grip (around his shoulders near the neck) as N's attempt to strangle him slightly. N wasn't trying to do that at all but the guy asked him to "do it harder...and use both hands." I could make the transition cleaner here but how close is breath play to wanting to be called "nigger" while you're fucked or wanting to fist someone until there's blood on your knuckles?

Celibacy

Before yesterday's interview, I NEVER thought I'd run across anyone celibate. This youthful 20-something Asian, whom I prejudged to the hilt, has been through a lot. Being from an extremely rigid Christian family, when he came out, he came out hard--in all the unhealthy ways. There were drugs, excessive sex, drinking...we know the drill. Once, he awoke from a drunken stooper to discover he'd been raped by two guys he'd turned down earlier in a bar.

I have a lot of respect for this guy. Being celibate for anyone, especially in this society, is a major accomplishment. But to be celibate, conventionally attractive, gay, and in your 20's? That's serious shit.

Here's some of what he shared: "When I came out I went crazy with trying to find an identity...[sex] isn't something you should let overcome you...I masturbate all the time...white men think all Asians are bottoms...they see me on Facebook and think I'm just this dumb, easy person..."

We need these stories.

The last few days have been miraculous. Men from Maryland to San Francisco have talked to me on the phone and in person about their fetishes. We've all made discoveries. The song lyrics are coming along, too. I'm looking for a cute guitar player.

Mojo was a no go

After the SF Public Library's Smash the Church, Smash the State book panel (which was inspiring in every way), I headed over to do what I haven't done in years--read at an open mic. I didn't do it because the place didn't seem to engender, say, seriousness about poetry. These poems need attention to be paid and so I couldn't risk (maybe too strong a word) sharing this enterprise where it wouldn't be considered, really considered.

Headed to the Castro after that and there was a guy on the street with a typewriter writing poems for a contribution. Maybe I should consider setting up a feti(sh)ame table with my typewriter.

Rosebud

Here are excerpts from three poems from feti(sh)ame. Please note that in gay culture "boy" refers to a man.

Rosebud

At Babylon
I fingered a Thai regular.
He had English enough
to tell me his dreams.
And if you know how a Thai boy
can make you remember years from that moment
even the faint rising music of his voice...

Uncut

When the clean-shaven one
with the black Porsche asked me
not to clean it
I understood the poetry
in his appetite...

moan

why haven't i ever
needed you
black porno
with your slim,
veined do-ragged trade,
too rough and tatted tough
to moan or make any sound
like it hurts good or bad...

Sharing and Sharpening

I read a few feti(sh)ame poems at the final reading in the Jack Straw Writers Series last Friday. It was only the second time I'd shared any of those poems in public. Not one person said anything to me about them. I did receive a FB friend request from an audience member who thanked me, specifically, for writing about fetishes. Other than that, nothing. I'm going to keep presenting these poems at various readings in and outside of the SF bay area to see what's working and what needs work. Tomorrow, if it works out, I'll go over to Mojo Bicycle Cafe and see what they think.