Confession

There are so many reasons that I am going to hell:

I talk with my mouth full of food,

organ meats and whiskey-soaked cheeses,

forget to say “thank you,”

and when I was young I kneed a friend in the sternum

for no reason, other than the fact

that I was wearing knee-pads.

The last time I went to church

I chuckled at the sissy priest,

how he lisped his way through the creed

and I thought about how years earlier I masturbated

in the church basement bathroom

thinking of Judas kissing Jesus in the garden.

It was my third and final stumble with the cross.

I forgot my father’s fiftieth birthday

and I envied his recurring flying dream

where he floats on high above hills and trees;

it sounded just like Wordsworth.

But I can only dream like Tom of Finland:

sinewy and thick-veined, of ways

the arms and legs are bound, pinned-

down and pierced, bleeding from

first-time-blowjob-Bobby’s clumsy teeth.

I have forsaken my friends as failures

and failed too in being their friend.

I have moments of horrid peace,

my hands shaking drunk wrapped around

the head of a friend, also young and unwound,

watching him regret

holding his mouth against me,

wishing I could love him

for more than just those minutes.