Pink Cellophane Is Not a Weapon

P-flags are flying higher this month. Rainbows flourish over cities all over the world as Pride Parades wind their way down city blocks. And I recall the days when I was still in denial. Not the kind of denial where I didn’t know I was gay, but the kind of denial where I denied myself these feelings. It was my cross to bear.

So, this one time at karaoke with my Mormon friends at a gay-friendly establishment, after witnessing the guys that held hands and sang their fancy little hearts out without a care, I wrote this poem down. At the time I wanted to write it out of annoyance; they were just pushing their lifestyle on all of us. I mean, there I was trying to bear my cross and they’re just prancing around. I came to realize that I wasn’t annoyed. I was really

curious and a little bit lonely.


This guy gets it.
This guy gets it.

I’ve been wrapped up
in his fabulous
pink cellophane
so tightly around
my narrow frame
only my tongue,
and flaccid penis show
while his
dark eyes—
for the first time
tonight in
crowd— set upon me.
The clicks and
perpetrated by his
ruby red slippers
prevail over
my protests
and contentions.
My breath wanes.
His flamboyant laughter
like a sermon
that cannot be resisted.
His persuasion
like nonabrasive
but pervasive
over my
rose washed




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