Misadventures & Homoerotic Poetry

Two of my friends have passed judgment on the photograph. One says, "You're not as hideous as me," and the other says, "Handsome, in a classical 18th century style." Here I am, hours later, and I still haven't gotten all the wax off my keyboard. The lighting in that photo is candlelight. My actual purpose was to try and photograph the candles in an artistic way, thinking that if it turned out decent, I would use it as the cover for Fire Pearls. It didn't, and I won't.

I also developed a pet peeve: Software that tries to read my mind and fails. Hell, not even my own mother knows what I'm thinking! How could software outsmart my mother? And so I committed the rather embarassing faux pas of sending some homoerotic poetry to a tanka e-list that I meant to send to a different recipient. *BLUSH* Fortunately, I have not figured out how to competently write truly hot tanka, so the poems were relatively tame. As opposed to my imagination which isn't tame at all!

Long, long ago, a wise old leatherman taught me the secret of sexuality. He pointed to his head and said, "If you're not turned on up here," he pointed to his lower head, "It doesn't matter what's going on down here." Amen, brother. The brain is the only sex organ.

Having embarassed myself by posting six homoerotic tanka where others could read, I figured I might as well post them here, too. Better to be hanged as a wolf than a sheep, I always say. A word of warning, although tanka are often autobiographical, not all of these are. Some of them are complete fiction, but all of them half true.

a man
with tangled hair
is a rare thing, but
that is because
I am a rare lover


After we make love,
I spend the night staring
at the mountain of his shoulder
and the darkness of his skin,
hating his wife.


Male colors...
yellow and brown,
legs and arms entwined,
and the rumble of his sleep
through the winter’s night.


I show him how much
I love and desire him --
then he goes home to her.
I want to hammer nails
through both of them.


He answers, “Hello?”
and I nearly drop the phone
at the sexy sound of his baritone.
Would it be so wrong
to seduce my friend’s husband?


Sneak up dancer,
deer toes around your ankles,
hairpipes around your throat,
copper skin flashing,
you dance the Red Road.

NB. 'Sneak Up Dance,' one of the oldest traditional Native American dances.


An admirable man, the captain,
able, honorable, and reliable --
handsome, too,
although that doesn’t matter
to the wind.


I'm also exceptionally bored this evening, which is something you will rarely hear me admit. In my opinion, bored people are boring people. I really don't see how anyone with a brain could ever be bored. Nothing to do? Use your head! Therefore, in my search for socialization and amusement, I decided to update my profile and go blog reading. Now I have a new pet peeve: People who create blogs, post once, and disappear. Collateral peeve: Blog software that claims a person has made 'recent' posts to their blog when they haven't posted since 2004. Exactly what is blogspot's definition of 'recent?'

I also noticed that people look at my profile, but they don't post comments. This must mean I have either overawed them with my brilliance, or they decided cleaning the catbox was more fun. Talk to me, people! It's a blog! Use the comment feature!

Just don't spam me with ads for porn, diploma mills, stock of questionable merits, Viagra, cures for hair loss, or any other junk. My imagination is sexier than your porn, I already have my diploma, I'm too damned poor to buy stock, I don't need Viagra, I have a full head of hair, and I have a lifetime supply of junk. In short, whatever you're selling, I don't need it.