Mahal

Mahal means love in tagalog. 

In pre-colonial Philippines, there were mythology, magic, and deities. What’s even cooler is that many of the deities were considered genderless or nonbinary. And that’s not all, there was a third gender. Originally, this gender was designated for transwomen, who were seen as spiritually connected. Eventually this term became an almost umbrella term for the queer community. Today, there’s even gay speak called swardspeak. And let me tell, it’s delightful.

When you look back you can see how interwoven the gay is throughout culture. Much of which was erased. 

Mahal is a reconnection to that culture that our community is built on. The past that accepted us as a part of the natural life without batting an eye. Riding on the coat tails of Gilbert Baker. Mahal is set up to resemble the original pride flag, first debuted in 1978 at the San Francisco Pride Parade. 

‘Twas a challenge set by Harvey Milk, an influential leader amongst the community. Which, if you ask me, is the gayest part about it. He challenged Baker to create a flag for the community. Baker spent a good long while designing and figuring out what would be the best representation. At the end of the day, rainbows won. 

The colors were carefully chosen by Baker. Each color represents a different element within the queer community. Nestled within each stripe is where the work from our stunning contributors lies.

By embracing our history, we can be louder and gayer. Proudly displaying our culture, our acceptance, and our Mahal.

And as we know, gayer tends to be better *winks*

sex

life

Healing

Sunlight

Nature

Magic

Serenity

Spirit

Contributors

Andre Wilson – André Le Mont Wilson (he/him/his) is a Black Queer poet and writer. His chapbook Hauntings won the 2022 Newfound Prose Prize. In the first half of 2024, he published in Fruit: Queer Literary Journal, Fruitslice: A Queer Quarterly, Fourteen Poems: Queer Poetry Anthology, Beneath the Soil: Queer Survivor’s e-Zine, and won the First Frost Award for best haiku in issue #7.
Instagram: awilsonstoryteller

Allison Fradkin – Allison Fradkin (she/her) has a gay old time creating satirically scintillating poems, prose, and plays that (sur)pass the Bechdel Test. She has contributed to Vita & the Woolf, Snowflake Magazine, Quill & Echo, Pastel Serenity, Gnashing Teeth, Spray Paint Magazine, The Queer Gaze, Sweet Tea Literary Magazine, Femme Problems, Fairy Chatter, and Sapphic Writers Collective; as well as the collections Audacious Women, Slamming Bricks, Proud of Rust and Glass: A Midwest Pride Anthology, Frozen Women/Flowing Thoughts, Sapphic Eclectic, and Chicken Caesar Salad for the Gay Soul 2: Give a Queer a Pronoun. Allison’s auxiliary activities include vintage shopping, volunteering, and tending to her thespian tendencies.

Audrey Campbell

Dr. Nina Carroll – I secretly identified myself as a young bisexual poet, then a serious student, sailor, traveler, gardener, gynecologist, now embracing the poet again exploring many forms and seasons, rhyme and reasons for being alive in this evolving world.

My first published poem is in the anthology Irises where it was longlisted for the University of Canberra Vice-Chancellor’s International Poetry Prize in 2017.   Additional poems have been published in the book How Swimmers Dream in 2021, Open Door Magazine December 2021, parchamonline October 2022, Sad Girl Review issue 9: Cat Lady in 2023, and skinkbeatreview:  Horror issue 2023.
Website: ninacarrollmd.com 
Instagram:  ninacarrollmd  
Substack:  @ninacarrollmd

Em Ray

J. Bechard – Exploring themes of mental health, personal identity, and the nuances of human vulnerability, J. Bechard’s work is a reminder of young intellectualism and old philosophy; raised on classic literature and the religious chasms of the deep south, his prose delivers a unique blend of romanticism juxtaposed with contemporary style.

Jack D. Harvey – Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies.

 The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He once owned a cat who could whistle Sweet Adeline, use a knife and fork and killed a postman.
 

James Kangas – James Kangas is a retired librarian living in Flint, Michigan. His poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Faultline, New York Quarterly, Penn Review, Unbroken, West Branch, et al. His chapbook, Breath of Eden (Sibling Rivalry Press), was published in 2019.

 

James Penha – Expat New Yorker James Penha (he/him) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work is widely published in journals and anthologies. His newest chapbook of poems, American Daguerreotypes, is available for Kindle. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Twitter: @JamesPenha

Jerl Surratt – Jerl Surratt’s poems have been published in The Amsterdam Quarterly, Hopkins Review, Kenyon Review, Literary Imagination, and in other journals and anthologies in the US, UK and EU. Born in rural Texas, he worked for many years in NYC as a writer for local and national LGBTQ+ and AIDS organizations, and for other social service groups. He now lives in upstate New York. www.jerlsurratt.com

Jerome Bergland – Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, and Modern Haiku. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/BerglundJerome
BLOG: https://flowersunmedia.wixsite.com/jbphotography/blog-1/
INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/berglundjeromehaiku/
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/JeromeBerglundPhotography/

Linda M. Crate – Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022). 

Michael Lee Johnson – Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 313 plus YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 46 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 553 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/. 

Mike Hickman – Dr. Mike Hickman is a former academic and – very current – writer from York, England. He has been published in numerous publications, including the Cabinet of Heed, Red Fez (also previously an editor), Bandit Fiction (ditto!) and Sledgehammer. Best of the net nominated on more than one occasion, he has written for the stage and is also very active on Medium as @sirhenryatrawlinsonend 

Mychiclonmel

Randall Stauffer – Randall Stauffer is a professor of interior design and architecture at Woodbury University. He is a visual artist who uses his work to better see the world around him and celebrate his queer identity. His visual and written art explores how poetry and space create meaning. In his visual art he brings together the experience of the environment with the abstraction of space by digital manipulating hand sketches. His poems explore memories of lived experience as he navigates his gay identity. Facebook.com/randy.stauffer.9

Salvatore DiFalco – Salvatore DiFalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and satirist currently living in Toronto, Canada.

Tom Daley – Tom Daley’s poetry has appeared in North American Review, PocketSmut, Harvard Review, Massachusetts Review, Fence, Denver Quarterly, Crazyhorse, Prairie Schooner, Witness, and elsewhere. House You Cannot Reach—Poems in the Voice of My Mother and Other Poems was published by FutureCycle Press. Ethel Micro Press published his chapbook, Far Cry.

Yuan Changming – Yuan Changming edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include 12 Pushcart nominations for poetry and 2 for fiction besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline and 2019 other literary outlets worldwide. A poetry judge for Canada’s 2021 National Magazine Awards, Yuan began writing and publishing fiction in 2022. 

Creation Myths

By Jerome Berglund

hyacinth on the sill
fading light
spring shade
blood flower in a clay pot
sweet smell by the roadside
braiding daisies

Background: Hyacinthus was a beautiful Spartan youth, beloved by the god Apollo. As the good Spartan he was, Hyacinthus loved athletics, and one day the two decided to practice throwing the discus. Apollo went first, sending the disc flying up to “scatter the clouds” as Ovid says. Hyacinthus ran laughing after it, thinking to catch the disc, but instead it hit him in the head, killing him. Ovid has a beautiful passage about Apollo holding the dying youth, desperately trying to use his skill with medicine to keep him alive. But even the mighty god of healing could not save the one he loved. In honor of his lover, Apollo makes a flower spring up from Hyacinthus’ blood."

a love that's never sung

By Linda Crate

i could be
your lestat,
and you could be
my louis;

we could kiss beneath
the moon—

bury our enemies
in our wrath,
spill their blood upon
on our tongues;

regret nothing as we spend
eternity in one another’s arms—

immortality wouldn’t last long
with the right lover, and i know with
you that it would be over in the
blink of an eye;

so let’s put on the performance
of our lives and take off every mask
that’s ever held us back—

let us love with a love that’s never sung.

Before Ziggy became Stardust*

By Dr. Nina Carroll

he tried to wear the collar
of the Holy Cross Fathers
but the faintest lisp
and limpness of wrist
twisted his plan

this tall wraith with skin pellucid
fills cotton into his bra for breasts
shaves all hair except his head
he covers with a wig
manicures hands
unfurls silk stockings up lithe legs
she slithers
into a polka-dotted dress sleek

small and olive-skinned
I paint a mustache of mascara
stuff long black hair into a beret
bind my breasts flat
then slip into Judy’s leather jacket
pour thighs into slacks
he slips feet into borrowed boots cocksure

we smoke weed
drink red jug wine
stroll into the living room of the seminary
as costumed friends gawk
we are the odd couple in drag Halloween 1970

years later
one ex-seminarian entrusts me
to my first female lover
who later becomes a man
I am her brainy butch then
when she is glamorous femme
and
sweet Ziggy is now cosmic stardust

*James Zielinski was pulverized into stardust in the DC 10  Flight 191 explosion at Chicago’s O’Hare airport May 25, 1979

Lollipop

By Mychiclonmel

Hay Baler

By Andre Wilson

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room, waiting for his third attempt at an ambulance transport home because he lacked the stamina and balance to board my car and walk two flights of stairs to our condo. His nurse convinced us of his risk of falling. Nothing I could do.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room and returned to work, driving along Bay Area back roads to avoid the congested freeways. Turning onto Alhambra Valley Road between Pinole and Martinez, I drove behind a white F-150 pickup truck hauling hay bales.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room and thought about him when I saw the hay bales stacked and tied in the pickup’s bed. As a Bakersfield farm boy, he operated a hay baler, the tractor pulling the machine behind him, dropping bales from the chute like a cow dropping shit.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room, and, for whatever reason, I thought of him as a bale of hay shimmering in the morning sun like the baby hairs on his skin. Straw bits flew off the truck like strands of hair from his head. I rolled down my window to smell the hay, to smell him.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room, and joy leaped in my heart when the pickup turned onto Bear Creek Road. We were driving the same route! I followed like a horse following a hay wagon. I imagined myself atop the bale, chewing it, savoring it, tasting him.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room and wanted the pickup to stop so I could mount a hay bale and embrace it like a bareback riding cowboy trying to stay on a bucking bronc. And when I thought about the last time I barebacked him, I ejaculated into the hay bale.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room as I followed hay bales along winding rural roads past ranches, creeks, and oaks. And I wondered if I was unfaithful to him by chasing after other bales or if I was faithful because the bale transubstantiated into his body.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room, and sadness panged my heart when the pickup drove straight across San Pablo Dam Road to Wildcat Canyon Road, but I turned left onto Camino Pablo. And my fantasies of making love not in the hay but to the hay ended.

I left my husband stranded in his hospital room and called him from the road while he waited for medical transport, and I asked him, “Tell me about the time you baled hay when you were a boy. How old were you? Where was the farm? Who owned it? How does a hay baler work?”

Click here

The Cashier in the Sporting Goods Store

By James Kangas

Baiting me with one glance, enough
to bury the hook, you have no
intentions but to sneer me to the dirt
to gasp and thrash around, the angler
angled. Still, I can’t not sigh,
can’t not stare. Are you deeper
than a sardine tin, I wonder?

The fit of your skin obsesses me
like the beauty that yanked once, whipped
the pole double, and shone in the water,
lithe, iridescent, never to come home
succulent to my table with butter
and capers (that fabled Thanksgiving), never
to yield to my lips one sweet nibble.

Published in RFD, Summer 1994

ASSPLAy

By Andre Wilson

Oh, Dave!
What are you doing back there?
Kissing.

bad things on my mind

By Em Ray

bad things on my mind
hand on thigh
i can feel your
heartbeat
i can smell your
wet heat
it’s distracting
what i really want
limitless time
deep
slow
seep
soaked
good girl
could tie you up
think you’d like it
how about a please
what i really need
is to frenzy
dizzy at the thought
your mouth my ear
you set the pace
i’ll steer

Dinner Party

By Randy Stauffer

East vs West: A Synoptic Cultural Comparison

By yuan changming

During the great flood, Noah hid himself in the ark
While Dayu tried to contain it with his bare hands

Prometheus stole fire from Olympian gods
While Sui Ren got it by drilling wood hard

Smart Daedalus crafted wings to fly away from his prison-tower
While Old Fool removed the whole mountain blocking his way

Helios enjoyed driving his chariot all along in the sky
While Kuafu chased the sun to take it down & tame it

Sisyphus rolls the boulder uphill because of his deceitfulness, while
Wu Gang cuts the laurel as a punishment for distractions in learning

Mt. Jacinto

By Randy Stauffer

The Passion of Dionysus

By James Penha

Adapted from mythology recorded in the 2nd Century A.D. by Pausanias, Pseudo-Hyginus, and Clement of Alexandria compiled and curated as “Dionysus Loves” at the Theoi Project https://www.theoi.com/Olympios/DionysosLoves.html#Polymnos.

Dionysus came to term in his father Zeus’s thigh
not in the womb of Semele who, tricked by Hera
to envision Zeus in all his glory, exploded in flames
at so beatific a vision, and thus the hand of thunder
snatched his unborn son and secured him in his self.
The adolescent Dionysus longed to meet his mother,
rescue her from Hades, and invest her on Olympus.
Zeus agreed but left it to his son to find his own way
to the underworld. Dionysus had heard that a spring
feeding Lake Lerna south of Argos was a portal
to Hades, but which spring where in the bottomless
body of water to try? As he scanned the great lake
from a grove of ancient fig trees, Dionysus was met
by Prosymnos the fisher who asked how he might
serve such a handsome youth. When the god explained
his quest, Prosymnos offered to take him to the spring
through which he could reach Hades and his mother,
but Prosymnos wanted something valuable in return:
he wanted to fuck Dionysus “not now but when you
return to this place. We are,” continued Prosymnos,
“an honorable mortal and immortal.” The god of wine
and instigator of wild revels was unvexed by the accord,
excited more to make his way to Hades which he did
after Prosymnos boated him to a point in the middle
of the lake where spring water bubbled to the surface.
Dionysus dove into the Lerna, into its effervescence,
a source far beneath the earth. How he met Semele,
bowed to her, and uniquely rescued her from Hades
to live forever on Olympus is a story for another poem.
We return with Dionysus to Lake Lerna to make good
with Prosymnos but that man died himself while our
hero was in Hades. They could have crossed paths
in the underworld but never did as far as we know.
Dionysus was bereft not of an emotional attachment
to Prosymnos but of his commitment to his own word.
The wine god plucked a fig tree branch and carried
it to the burial place of Prosymnos where he whittled
the stick until it resembled an erect phallus. The son
of Zeus disrobed, kneeled before Prosymnos’ grave,
and slowly slipped with his left hand the wooden rod
into his bunghole. With his right hand he masturbated
until he ejaculated both semen and a cry mourning
Prosymnos who had allowed a god to satisfy his needs.

David Sits Between Two Gates Waiting for MIchael

By Randy Stauffer

The curtain opens to a man watching a river.
He sits beside leftover scrim from last night’s show
that fell from the branches of two trees; a pine and a pear,
&nsp&nsp;&nsp;&nsp;&nsp;&nsp;&n;a tine and a tear.

Because the footlights blind him,
he only hears his lover running in the mezzanine.

He wants for his return; to stand over
his clothes lying in the orchestra is not enough.
The wardrobe department never showed up for this production.

He scales a roof and sits atop terracotta tiles waiting
for the reach of his other as they both throw their eyes open,
&nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; upward,

to swim among a current of spectators;
&nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; him blinded by floods and
&nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; he ensconced in sounds.

Crepuscular koans like certain bats’ meditative echoes create
silences that reach an ultrasonic hue and an ultraviolet howl;
senses beyond the knowledge of men,
&nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; of them.

&nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; Watching over…
&nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; wandering through…
&nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; &nsp; wondering if

acts of an immutable union — an unchanging bed
of periwinkle— will flourish as the lone runner grows more distant.

 

they remind me how small i am

By Em Ray

they remind me how small i am
couldn’t be a real man
just small on the inside
can’t handle big desire
or her disdain
everyone gather round
jester refrain
tomboy
peter pan
corduroy
chest pain
thing is
i’m not man or woman enough
secret third thing
my gender is tender
gentle giant heart
handsome softness
thought i’d play the part
but want to be a pretty king
late summer stroll
soil green soul
purple leaf permission to sing
lifted with gold
christened by me

Gay for Pay

By Tom Daley

They are keeping my screen company now,
those young mercenaries with midriffs
stiff as toothaches,

with smiles that twist
and trade rough for pliable.
They know my mind

placates its narrowness
with looping vignettes of them
hired to perforate

wrinkled foyers they find
foul, outlandish, and devised
for other commotions.

I like to think that after
so many rehearsals
French-kissing

another male, they might
invent a taste for beard
stubble and the copper

coolness of a man’s mouth,
even if it regularly fills
with the bumps

of a scrotum’s gunny sack.
But no sir, after they finish
work, they lean into

barmaids with crowded breasts
and fallopian tubes
shiny with possibility,

maids whose pungent
and flexible sheaths breathe
glossily with astringent

emissions that permit only
the most robust seed
to plant their raked acres,

acres that might ask for a plough’s
iron-hooped tautness
but not necessarily its smile.

Ipso Facto

By Salvatore DiFalco

On our journey inward we ran into many impediments. Let me be honest, I cannot say for certain it was worth it.
nnn“Tell them about the anxiety.”
……. At times, I became so anxious I ground my teeth until my jaw and neck muscles seized up. And I clenched my hands so hard I drove my fingernails into my palms.
…….. “Did they bleed?”
…….. “They did.”
…….. “You know what stigmata is, I assume.”
……. “Yes, but it was nothing like that.”
…….. I glanced at the sunburst clock above the sink, one I had pilfered from my dying friend Ray’s house, and it was still stuck at 2:50 as it had been for several weeks. This is known as the Timex time, in case you’re wondering, when watch-hands frame a Timex logo.
…….. “Where does this shit come from?”
……. “I used to read a lot, I think.”
;;;;;;;;;; “No, you were a boob-tube cat.”
;;;;;;;;;; “Is that even a thing?’
;;;;;;;;;;; Was that even a thing, a boob-tube cat? An unpleasant stench comes to mind.
;;;;;;;;;;; “You need rest perhaps.”
;;;;;;;;;;; “I always need rest.”
;;;;;;;;;;; “Have some camomile.”
;;;;;;;;;;; “It reminds me of illness.”
;;;;;;;;;;; “Perhaps you are ill.”
;;;;;;;;;;; “I hear voices.”
;;;;;;;;;; “Maybe it’s the universe talking to you.”
;;;;;;;;;; Does the universe even know who I am? I don’t think so. How would I introduce myself to the stars? Here I am, Mr. Nobody. You may shine brightly, but I write little stories about your shining brightly.

"Hear Me Out"

By Allison Fradkin

I may be hard-of-hearing
but I’ve got pride
coming out of my ears.
That doesn’t mean
communi-gay-tion
is always easy though.
I read lips, you read lipstick.
Let’s hear it for the boy?
Here we go again.
I’ll sing a different tune, thank you.
In fact, I’ll tune you out.
Now don’t tympanic—
it’s no great hearing loss.
On the advice of Nellie Forbush,
I went and washed that man
right out of my hair and
eardrummed him out
of my dreams.
Sorry to hear that?
That’s neither here nor there.
And now I think I’ll
turn off my listening ears,
remove the cool-aid from the cups,
and hear what I want to hear—
something laudable,
not audible.
Because here’s the deal:
I’m hear
-ing impaired,
I’m queer,
get…
Well, you’ve heard all this already.
Now hear this:
from here on out,
let’s be all ears, not all fears;
let’s differentiate, not differenti-hate.
If you don’t,
you’ll never hear the end of it.
Oh, you heard me loud and queer?
Good.
Glad to hear it.

First Pixie Cut

By Audrey Campbell

Wonderin'

By Lance Manion

A man and a woman walked on a path under a canopy of trees. Small birds sang in full-throated fashion in the background.

They did not hold hands, but it was strongly implied (the man and woman, not the birds… how would that even work?). Squirrels and deer came in and out of view on the periphery. Adorably so.

They had been friends forever and then briefly lovers (the man and woman, not the squirrel and deer… although who can say for sure). This explains the last year and a half when they have not been in communication.

Their romantic entanglement had ended when she decided that she was bi-sexual and had entered a relationship with a female. He did not take the news well.

It should have been awkward to meet up again but it wasn’t. They immediately fell back into their comfortable pattern of talking about everything and nothing simultaneously. Everything and nothing seemed funnier or more poignant when they were together.

“So” he began, “Are you still a card-carrying lesbian?”

She smiled. “About that…” she answered and then trailed off. They walked a considerable distance in silence. Again, not an awkward silence as much as a pause to build suspense. And to be clear, while the man and woman remained silent, the small birds kept up with the aforementioned tweeting and chirping.

“When I decided to break it off with you I’d been seeing the girl for a few weeks. But we hadn’t had sex yet. At the time I was pretty fixated with the idea of going down on a girl.”

It was apparent that she planned on trailing off again, even the path under their feet was in danger of transforming into a trail, but he was having none of it. “So you broke up with me when you hadn’t even determined if you were truly bi-sexual?” he asked rather pointedly.

“I guess it’s easier to explain with a story” she finally continued. Before he could object she barreled on. “I had an unrelated dream the other day, which was what inspired me to call you. It involved my dad, which then reminded me of a story he’d told me years and years ago.”

Clearly this was not the answer he was hoping for. If they had been holding hands he would have unheld it. Even the surrounding birds seemed to warble a little less lustily.

“When he was younger he heard a song on the radio that he liked so he went and bought the album. I don’t remember the name of the song, but the name of the band was Neil Young and the Shocking Pinks. Keep in mind my dad was never a big music guy so he had no idea who Neil Young was at the time. This album, which ended up being horrible, was the only thing my dad had to judge Neil Young by. He didn’t know that Neil had been part of Crosby, Still & Nash and he’d never heard of After the Gold Rush or Rust Never Sleeps. I know, I know, you of all people find that impossible to believe, but it’s the truth. All he knew was that this guy named Neil Young recorded a pretty shitty rockabilly album.”

It was at this juncture that he began to wonder if they would run out of woods before she got to her point.

“Later he found out that Neil had recorded the album just to piss off the record label he was recording for. While he didn’t consciously mean to make a bad album, he also didn’t seem to care either way. Sort of a ‘fuck you’ to the music industry’s expectations.”

He felt he had to interrupt with a very salient question; “What does this have to do with you going down on a girl?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m certain that it does” was all she had to say. Said in a way that made it clear that she knew perfectly well but was waiting for him to figure it out.

“Did you end up having sex with her?” he finally inquired. Inquired being a nice way of saying blurted out. Blurted out being a nice way of saying he wanted to strangle her to death right then and there. He looked around and saw nothing but ideal places to bury her.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Let’s just say I have new-found respect for you. The vagina up close is terrifying.”

All he could do was laugh. And laugh. As full-throated as any bird, large or small. Finally he added “Yes it is. Certainly not for the faint of heart.”

He suddenly felt the urge to hold her hand, which he didn’t act on, and press her for more details, which he also decided against. Instead he said “The song was probably Wonderin’. It was the only one on that album that got any airplay.” While her dad might not have been a big music fan, he was a dyed-in-the-wool musicophile. He knew every note Neil Young had ever recorded.

“How appropriate” she said with a wink and then got out her phone. After a few seconds she found it on Youtube and they continued their walk accompanied by the rhythmic stylings of Neil Young and the Shocking Pinks.

Baby, you’ve been gone so long

I’m wonderin’ if you’ll come home

I’m hopin’ that you’ll be my baby

I’m wonderin’ if I’ll be alone

Knowin’ that I need you to save me.

Yard Rock

By Randall Stauffer

Avon Calling (The Boy Gay)

By Mike Hickman

The boy is only there because his mother can’t do the Avon round on her own.

The “round” consisting, as it now does, of one corner of Passfield Avenue.

And one customer.

Wendy Glasspoole.

If he had any choice at all in the matter, the boy would be at home with his Doctor Who books. But his mother will insist that it’s not safe for her to be out on her own, what with “the Irish terrorists” being out there, ready to jump on her at any moment.

The boy’s family live in the south of England.

The IRA are quite likely to be engaged elsewhere. And, let’s face it, targets on Passfield Avenue, Eastleigh, are few and far between. As far as the boy knows, short of a secret government installation beneath the leisure centre, there is only the Sperrings on the corner.

But his mother will insist.

Besides, she has other reasons for wanting him to be there when she delivers the free perfume samplers to the woman she has occasionally taken to calling her friend.

“He’s been wearing the scarf again.”

“Hmmmm.”

“And the bow tie.”

“Dear me.”

The women exchange disapproving moues. Neither wear them as well as the boy wears the bow tie.

Purple velvet, by the way. It wouldn’t have looked out of place on a 1970s’ club comedian. Bernard Manning, say. And the boy knows that. His mother has told him that. But it’s his homage to Jon Pertwee’s Doctor Who.

Like the hair is his homage to Tom Baker.

It was his mother, after all, who permed it.

“Nice jacket,” says Wendy Glasspoole, not meaning it. That’s velvet, too. A cross between a Pertwee and a Tom Baker season 12. When your clothes come from charity shops, you tend not to get much in the way of choice.

“And then there’s the theatre, isn’t there?” says the other woman, flicking idly through a catalogue her only friend and customer will doubtless not order from. If there is anything to be disapproved of more than terrorist maneouvres deep in the heart of southern England, there is always the theatre. “You know what they say about actors. He’s doing that now.”

Glasspoole’s glassy eyes flit over to the mantlepiece. It hasn’t gone unnoticed by the boy that the family pictures have been removed since the last visit.

This woman has a son, too.

Had, past tense, now, by all accounts.

“You’ll have to talk to him about it,” says Wendy Glasspoole. “Before it’s too late. Just the samplers next time again, dear, if you don’t mind.”

It’s a moment before the boy’s mother notices the change of subject. She reaches for her order pad to write down what she always writes down every time they visit.

As the boy determines what he will be wearing the next time, and every time anyone tries such insinuations.

And, yes, that includes right to this very day.

an encore

By Linda M. Crate

i had a dream once
that hellsing
and dracula were married;

so you want to be
my hellsing
and i’ll be your dracula?

we could dance beneath
every sunset that sings
the song of our love,
and beneath every velvet moon
silver as my soul;

put your hand in mine:
it’s only eternity—

why should only the youth
know beauty?
let us know immortality
together,
you’re the one i would cross
oceans and time for;

now promise me the same—

let us be wed together
in this lifetime and every one
that follows because a love this
intense deserves an encore.

Miss Cued

By Allison Fradkin

The first time we kiss, we are
wearing playbill-patterned pajamas,
blaring the soundtrack to Starlight Express,
and swearing off guys, all of whom
we’ve never cast an eyeball at in the first place.

We’ve been too busy making eyes at each other:
root beer float-brown
gazing at gumball-green.
Except now we’re looking at each other
just enough but not too much,
like actresses cheating out
to deliver dialogue.
Only we’ve both
gone up on our lines.
Or maybe we just haven’t
learned them yet.

Eventually, we pick up our LGBT-cues
and the distance between us starts to dwindle,
until your sugared grapefruit scent
and piggybank-pink pucker
are kissably close—
closer than a checker on a square.

I just can’t wait to be kinged.
So I don’t.
I lean in and latch on.
When it comes to kissing you,
there’s no business like slow business.
Everything about it is appealing:
the overture
that relevés into the opening number,
with its thoroughly modern melody;
the up-tempo standard
that grapevines into the introspective piece,
rendered with restrained longing.

And when the power ballad pivots
into the emotional climax,
with its harmonically-held high notes,
one singularly sensational
kick line starts inside my heart.

Candle of My Night

By Michael Lee Johnson

In the candle of my night
I see you blinking your eyes,
pink with a magnanimous
a vocabulary of mythology,
a Nordic star, shy,
shining in blondness,
resorting, shuffling
back and forth like a
loaded deck of cards,
lead-weighted-
your lost teardrops
through the years,
your esteem.
Quarter plugger dollar player
jukebox sing-along,
you’re but a street slut,
musical bars and chairs.
You stretch your loins
over the imagination of penises
like a condom. Protected, fruit
preserved on your spreading branches.
You wake up with sun tone memories
then the darkness, those mythical
tales and lost poems of the Poetic Edda
or Marvel comics.
You urinate morning dreams,
thoughts, remnants away.
You aren’t my first memory—
candle by night.

Agnus Dei

By James Kangas

The works of God
outshine the works of man, my friend,
Alfred, would say ex cathedra (ex
Catholics even say such), and I think
you’d agree with him.
nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnWe could be
in Chartres staring at the incomprehensible
stone marvel begun in the 12th century,
hell-bent on touching heaven,
and you’d notice the pretty boy lounging
on the steps of the south transept.

Published in The James White Review, Summer 1986

"I Love Lezzie"

By Allison Fradkin

It all started during a vacation from marriage.
Not mine—Lucy Ricardo’s.
Naturally, Ethel takes a hiatus
from her husband too,
and Lucy moves in with
—though not in on—
her gal pal.
But all hope is not lost,
least of all when Lucy lets loose
with this loaded remark: I hope you boys
are going to have as gay an evening
as we are.
(You know, they really were pioneer women, those two,
what with all the accidental advocating they did
for marriage equality.)

Okay, so maybe that remark really wasn’t so gay,
given the time period in which it was uttered,
but I chose to take it the right way:
as permission to
define,
refine,
and redefine
my sexuality.
I could do more than identify
as a member
of the LGBT community.
I could ident-defy:
as
Liberated,
Grateful,
Bodacious,
and Tenacious.

Seeing this revelation
as cause for celebration,
I went singin’ in the rainbow
that I prefer dolls to guys.
Mama said there’ll be gays like this:
those who embrace their sexuality straight away,
not only because they’ve figured out
that the bloom is off the heteros;
but also because,
in the words of midcentury chanteuse Dinah Washington,
What a diff’rence a gay makes
or something even more fifties-friendly,
like:
I love lezzie and she loves me
Queer as happy as two can be…

Ancient History

By Jerl Surratt

You were peach skin stretched on steel,
posed on an abandoned dock,
a student of Eakins on a rock,
about to jump in on my dare
to where I’d swum out
in the warm lake water
after we’d both stripped bare.

We deserved each other.
I was the little brother
you never had and wanted,
not least to overpower.
My nose in books,
I told you things
you’d never heard about,
weren’t even sure were true,
and you were like a man to me.

When we were in darkness together for the first time
it was a really warm night for March. We climbed
the stairs to the main door of our school
where it was darker still in the shadow of cedars.
Behind you was the balustrade above the playground
where we’d met and taken a liking to each other.
We kissed until our minds were wet.

One Sunday that summer it was super-hot
and I was home reading as you were not
and mother went to the door at your knock
and in a lilt called back to me Mike’s here.

The school was all locked up, the grounds
deserted. We sat out of sight of the street
on a broad, low concrete step under a long wide
portico of painted sheet aluminum, listening
for anyone or anything.
We were completely alone, we heard.
Our bodies pressed wherever our shirts could.
Our shirts were shed.
There was no breathable air
above where we struggled and bled.

Night Shift Crush

By Randall Stauffer

The bell ends my shift at midnight.
Dropped wrenches echo across
the shop floor as our t-shirts come off.
We walk into a resistant august
heat and head to your ‘72 Charger. The lime-
green surface reflects the cigarette by your leg.
I sidle up to you close enough to brush your shoulder.

Did you notice?

Still early, we take a run to Jersey,
get a six-pack, then head to the fields
behind the bowling alley, a landscape
of ad hoc racing strips and lumber yards.
Trying to pass a ‘69 Mustang you hand
me your beer and accelerate but
your expert shifting failed.

Are you worried I noticed?

Defeated, we drive to Lake Nockamixon.
We finish our beers and take another.
Sitting silently, the humidity explodes
into lightning and rain begins to hit the windshield.
I watch shadows cast by the street
lamp roll down your arm.
You give me a ride home and I sleep,
closing in on dreams where we win,

before waking to mow the lawn.

vacation with you

By Em Ray

vacation with you
to the local park
my sneakers
your french bob
clearly gay
and happy 

Closure

By Michael Lee Johnson

With age, my room
becomes small—
roots gather beneath
my thoughts in bundles—
exits are few.
The purr of romance.
The bark of leaving lovers,
fall leaves in distress.
Animals in the distance
deer, wolf calls,
birds of prey,
eyes of barn owls
those coyotes.
I see the bridge,
the cross-over line
not far away.
When this ticker
stops, livor mortis
purple is dominant,
all living quarters of the heart.
From here, the dimmed light
of dawn twinkles
takes on a new meaning,
not far. 

Summertime Blues

By Jerl Surratt

I just spoke threatening film noir words
to a hapless mosquito. That’s how weird
it can get out here on just one stiffener,
with night sidling up from the woods
dead right, turning me Bogart black-
and-white to hector poor Elijah Wood,
who’s never up to any good
especially in the guise of a mosquito.

Early August, a borrowed house
set well above a tidal river,
a cantilevered deck, a cushioned chair
…no doubt about it: lucky me.

The hawk that prowls this riverbank
appears and disappears, having to flap
its way upstream as there’s no breeze
to underpin the quest for food it’s always in.

A toast to it! And to the bats
who’ll soon perform their pirouettes
so close by my head I’ll hear the air
adjusted and the sound itself is all
I’ll feel. It’s like something invisible
takes a short, sharp breath it holds,
a bite of air, then swallows it.

Another toast? Why not.
To health, long life, prosperity,
to virtue and a tranquil dénouement.

Word this afternoon on screen from Panama
that you were morte. Oh no, I said loudly
and loudly again to the living room walls.

Your last paramour attached a photograph
of a photograph for which you hadn’t smiled,
propped up behind a line of votive candles, all
ablaze. How did he find me? How did he know?

When one of my first paramours,
the two of us of tender age,
you were completely of our time and place,
the 1984 of New York City one-night stands.
But after my first night with you
I couldn’t let you go, I was
so comically head over heels
to your dismay but not to mine.

And to your credit you’d relent
occasionally and tug the string
you let me keep you on
and break the rule you’d set
to not be loved or loving.

Old-emerald eyes, old kisses deep
and so unusually prolonged
you lost yourself in them and I
my fear of being lost in them.

And now that I think of it for the first time
you sort of acted like you knew
you’d be the first of us to take the fall
and how could you impress yourself
for my forever but to spoil me for
such kisses ever after?

I’ll welcome any sign you’ve come to call
when it comes, if it comes, by grace
of the invisible. And since this house
is the last along a dead-end stretch
of rural road, whatever sound I might release
tonight into the wild as to the walls
will blend with all that’s natural,
a cry that nothing human’s meant to hear.

Neural Couplingfor eleo

By J. Bechard

I can feel your heartbeat against my cheek,
And for the hours we have lain here
I have been comparing it with my own.
Slowly, our syncopation becomes synchronization.
Every pulse against my temple matches the rhythm in my chest,
Our blood being pushed and pulled through our bodies
To the same meter, same tune.
Our breathing follows the same time signature,
The neurons in our brains firing off the same symphony.
One beat, two beat.
One breath, two breath.
Same meter, same tune.
With gouged eyes and ruptured eardrums,
I would search for the body so perfectly in unison with my own.
I would know you by nothing but that.
I would know you without senses.

I/我, U/你 & E/伊: a Modest Proposal

By yuan changming

As classic Chinese suggests, we can
Reasonably attain linguistic equality
In English as long as we all agree
To use I, still for the first person singular
But U for the second, &
E for the third

All single-lettered
All capitalized
All sexes inclusive
Either case applicable, subject or object
& all equal in creation as
In speech acts

So, say after I:
I Love U
U love E
E loves us all

That's All Folks

By Jack D. Harvey

Donald Duck is
dead as Kelsey’s nuts,
deceased in the magic kingdom;
not ten tons of old celluloid
can bring him back again.
Mickey Mouse,
black-eared
in his big black
prideful shoes,
sweats like Porky Pig,
pink-slipped with Minnie
at the last.

Zoot-suited Hollywood
plays ducks and drakes
in all sizes and shapes
instead of swans;
yellow beaks
that speak and speak
long before they die.

Bambi and Bombast,
two more such
at the right time
couldn’t find Chang or Chen
so General Ching’s
chicken was shat upon;
reds and blues
went down
by the light
of Chairman Mao,
rising like a
new Sun Yat-sen.
What a day!
Or call it
on the long march,
a nice night’s work.
The play’s the thing
to catch the commune’s conscience,
cartouche to cartoon.

Disney, dubbed a fink
by the forces of labor
spoiled the kinder rotten
with Schneeweiss and such,
forced sugar
down their throats
for years.

The hell with it.
The duck died;
that’s awful
but done is done.
So set your face
against the reruns;
not ten thousand
Andalusian dogs
can charm him back again,
out-strutting Hitler
behind the Pathé news.

Sleep in peace
duck of dawn,
in the long night
dead and
nailed to the wall now,
cold as
Eskimo sleds or
witches’ broom.

Previously published in The Write Launch

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