This post was submitted by corey

Corey‘s new column, Little Black Book, runs Tuesdays at 9am. Tune in for creative writing on queer life.

“So Solitary is This Night Air”

Remember when I told her
I could pack in half an hour
And be half a world away
Before the sun set on the day

Remember years in hooded sweatshirts
Cut-up jeans, ignored directions
Nothing lost and nothing gained
Having nothing to explain

Now pounds shed and money earned,
Lovers loved and lovers spurned,
Weathers weathered and wet feet burned
Tables set and tables turned

Leave me worn by winter winds
My legs left limp, my life shut in
The earth so small and cold and grey
My sweet surrendered youth now half a world away


“The Exile”

In Barnes and Noble on Saturday night
We shop facetiously for fashion magazines
And upon seeing the latest coverage of Jon and Kate
Declare that some people have nothing to live for

You say maybe we should euthanize those who dare
Sit around and read of that shit
(Or was that me? Either way, I agreed.)
People seemed to stop and stare, but neither of us cared.

The next week (or was it two?)
I’m there alone (having nothing to do)
Avoiding being tackled by swarms of little kids
Watching a parade below from the window sills

I search in vain for some kind of art section
Amidst pills of cookbooks and Christmas gifts and cartoons
Shelf after shelf of fucking “Twilight” paraphernalia
And a few rows of Shakespeare in the back next to the cliffnotes.

I almost stumble over two men in dirty clothes
Sitting on the floor of the crowded, busy store
Eating a pecan pie out of the tin pan
With a shared, plastic fork

And I, an exile in this cold, absurd land
Walk home in the snow and cry…
In this city of half-baked dreams and cash-insulated jackets,
I fucking plot my swift return.

---

First time here? See what we're all about... Get involved... Send us a tip!...

---