I.
we are posed
our collective ass
high saddles arched to heaven
like monochrome rainbows
where cowboys deign to ride
we are constellation
dark stars who only shine against the light
night-walkers
and gateways to other sides
we are breathless
before querent dick
who examines
this sainted congregation of the dead
a grim and proper audience
a showcase of creative difference
a groomed cadaverous spectacle
consecrated by reaper hands
II.
our sanded faces
smooth as unfinished puppets
leave no distinction among us
except our reasons
tattooed beneath the surface
as fixed shadow
undaunted by light
we wanted to be real
and never wondered
where men turn
when there are no women to despise
we are the repetition of ending
a serial conversion of men to other things
through murderous means
III.
he folds our broken hands to pray
like an origami garden of lotus flesh
we are beauty
in the mud of our own desire
botanical men who hide ourselves
among the distortions of water
he bends our knees beneath us
to supplicate without words
for impossible things
each weave of brittle bead
laced between our fingers
a sin of freedom unforgiven
and falling apart
he opens our necks to smile
like rivering shortcuts to power
relieved the burden of sound
we are red-neck men
emptied fountains of pleasure
who stained the whited sheet
with intimate intention
IV.
we are
bound in sacred rigor
monuments of fallen men
we are
sainted sons
purged of infamy
made fearfully right
in the image of gods
we have never known
to love
we are buried
in the shallow grave of our beds
marked only by stigmata of lesser lovers
before men who will never see
the beauty of our natural form unfolded
who investigate us
to find themselves
