( INITIATION )

snowflakes can fall
eyes can register their existence
and for a brief second
they can be touched
by a tangible insistence
before it all melts
and sacrifices its hold
on their attention span
this is the course
of my love
running over my hand.

water is a ritual
they say it cleanses
and purifies life in a bath
there is a contradiction
as I am a sinner
under its gentle path
waves can roll
and swell up
over my form
and hold me
in ways too new
to feel forlorn.

the elements are at play
with my thoughtful nature
my Taoist serenity
is conflicting with my stature
I am standing tall
and strong
I have been touched to melt,
cleansed to sin,
it brings me back to you,
my initiation.

it has changed.
the elements at play.
the thoughts
and emotion’s sway.
I do not lean in for a kiss
with unguarded motion
I do not let you too close
because I have no devotion
I observe you curiously
as a creature in the zoo
wondering who you are now
and what it felt like to love you
it was in the moment
I held our love
as fragmented memories crossed
that I knew
how to feel
imminent loss.

_Sweet Venom_

Sometimes I find myself drifting out of myself…out of the moment…and almost analyzing the moment as a detached observer.
Very out of body. And almost juvenile, in the sense, that it is this almost awkward self-awareness that makes me overthink every action and feeling traveling through my body.

Diego says I am a sweet guy.
Elliot says I am too boyish.
And I relay this to Teri and refrain from vomiting in disgust at these descriptors, because they feel so one-dimensional and not in the least bit applicable to me.
And I also find it amusing that handles for me are by definition ‘compliments’ that I am taking as a bitch slap.

I am azucar.
If you’re in my circuit of close friends, I drip sugar. I am the topping on a crème brulee.
But like what about the other side of me?
I’m a bit sleazy at times. I’m the one who fucks his masseurs at posh spas.
I’m a fan of aggravated assault – wasn’t it just three weeks ago at Bowery Bar with Greg, that I threw a Grey Goose and ginger on a obscenely rude French guy?
Am I not the guy you always want on your side – and not as an enemy. Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord – and so does Richie when the stars align, and he’s feeling less ‘zen.’

And yea, when I was twenty I was beyond twink-status.
I was like Nick Jr in physical portrayal.
A flabby old chicken hawk’s wet dream.
And it grossed the hell out of me.
I refused to ever allow people buy me drinks.
And I kept my attraction steadily gazing on peers my own age.
Now, I am thirty. And good genes, clean living (post-rave scene L.A.), and an affection for real boy things: horror flicks, anime, superhero comic books, and punk/emo/Cali attire have, I know, regressed my status as an icon of masculine maturity.
But I know I’m not a bitch. I’m not a flame thrower. I’m not caressing Ab Fab or Streisand on my free weekends.
So I recognize I am in a grey zone.
I’m supposed to be a man now.
But my manliness is mental. It’s sophisticated palettes; it’s self-confidence; it’s neo-gay operating outside of the circuit currents.
But it’s also the creative entrepreneurial backlash. Suits make me itch like I am wearing a horrific second skin that is not a genetic match for my unique temperment.
Hair product is anathema when you can throw on a cool cap and go.
And pleasure fucks on manhunt feel so mundane and trivial. There’s like no challenge. I know I have a nice dong. I show a pic. A guy wants to hop it. Where’s the fun in that? Nooo. I prefer the challenge of my getting my highly trained massage therapist to give me head at a spa known for its delicately posh clientele.

This moment of pensivity is all about my backlash to backhanded compliments and relationship stop-gates.
One, because they feel so superficial and under the skin.
And two, because they feel so out of touch in really deciphering who I am.
I’m not a child saint.
I’m sweet venom.
I’m complicatedly simple.
And blissfully narcissistic in the sense that I just devoted an hour on a plane ride home to write about my level of self-awareness.
And at the same time, so Baptist-raised to appreciate humility and a total lack of self, that I question the need for self-expression in the first place.
Like if I am so assured, why do I need to write this in the first place?
I guess because the truth in the guys’ statements prompt me to re-examine myself from the outside-in.
And it’s like mental masturbation.
It’s just fun.
And I think it should be done more so on a regular basis, like real masturbation. The good kind. The kind that keeps me at peace and from whoring out.

Peace out.

(richie).

_Pretty Narcissist_

(richie)

I had you glazed in honey
pretty boy had pretty words
I think I gave pretty boy
more attention
than he deserves
lots of idle chatter
lots of mental lube
to make dreams go splatter
I found myself a pretty boy
and it doesn’t even matter

am I in this dialogue
am I in this space
I see your lips moving
I see the expressions in your face
I’m not hungry
I don’t even want a taste
I want to go back
to another time and place
I look back at my steps
and I want to do a retrace
but I’m too damn polite
to vanish without a trace
so I zone out
and even though meal’s over
I’m still sayin’ grace

not Adonis
just in his head
not a rockstar
as he claimed
in bed
I found a pretty narcissist
to take me out to dinner
it’s like bein corn-fed the stereotypes
of l.a.
and comin’ out thinner
I think I’m lost
in his gravitational pull
his voice is like a self-inflicting drone
that brings time to a lull

he thinks he so pretty
I think he so narcissistic
he thinks he so damn smart
but I find him so simplistic
we livin in his world
and it ain’t the least bit realistic
trip on lights, dali
dating is so surrealistic
it’s not sleepless in seatlle
it’s a ragin battle
for dominance over the conversation
for top or bottom insinuations
for a flow of energy – aggressive to subdued
I’m sittin’ here, boy, and I don’t know what to do with you
no desires
for chats and your dimpled booty
pretty narcissist
just go to bed, my sleeping beauty

_Creature of Substance_

So I have become obsessed in some odd way with the Apocrypha - the more mysterious 'addendum' to the Bible that seems more mystical and pagan in origin. It's a good sign to me - shows a reclamation of spirit.

I kind of hit that stride when I did the nude yoga. lol Yea, for my friends who know me, there is a contextually rich story there - I just don't feel like writing about it now.

I'm happy. I'm fucking happy. lol
And I am not on antidepressants. I'm not evading issues. I'm not 'in love' per se.
I've just been on this high note - lots of smiling. Sense of peace. Sense of strength and empowerment.

I think I am becoming a creature of substance.
Boys are boys. They're cute. They're fun to play with. To connect with.
They are not the center of my attention.
That in itself shifts my personal universe.
And also attracts very interesting people to my life.

I hold onto different things now...a different set of values and mores...
And through entrepreneurialism, I have faced unique adversities unrivaled in my career...
and I realize that I am blessed...and that I'm fuckin good at what I do...and that money is no longer my driver.

Relationships...deeper connection to self...family...the gym lol...

Yea. Ok. That's my moment of pensive pleasure posted.

Ciao ciao.