The Prophylaxis of Humour

“I am not a bitchy old fag, I am a sad old faggot,” said Sky Gilbert at The Violet Hour reading at Stock Bar in Montreal’s gay village last night.

He had just read two hilarious excerpts from his new book Sad Old Faggot, one about his penis and the other about his asshole, and was introducing a third excerpt about his complicated relationship with other older gay men.

Unlike the other man he was describing, he did not want young gay men to respect him, or acknowledge his history, so he was free from bitterness. He would be happy enough if they would just fuck him.

Listening to, and laughing with, him, I could relate on one level—the strange new territory of growing old—but not on another, because I have found my late forties and fifties to be incredibly rewarding on a personal and sexual level.

Earlier in the evening, Kai Cheng Thom read several blisteringly funny poems based on her experience as an Asian trans woman. I adore humour fueled by rage and she delivered her fury wrapped in cutting laughter. Her new book is a place call No Homeland, as it was sold out by the time I got to the book table, its unknown pleasures and pains still await me.

Very different in form, style and content the readings of both Sky Gilbert and Kai Cheng Thom shared a use of humour that was both defensive and offensive, a ward against future pain and a balm on personal history, post- and pre- exposure prophylaxis, if you will.

Rachel Amey, Peter Dubé, Harry Giles and Catherine Hernandez all read as well, making for a truly remarkable evening.

The Violet Hour is becoming a true treasure.

For the details on the next event on May 23 , check out: https://www.facebook.com/events/1560113084081981/

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Counting Non-Binary Digital Sheep

You cannot call me a liar
When I have yet to hear the truth
I cannot call you a cheater
When neither of us knows the rules

Now the boys are all girls at heart
Adding or removing a part

The game’s become quite the puzzle
Staccato tweets and viral memes
Endless rounds of pass the muzzle
Chasing androids’ electric dreams

Now the girls are all boys at heart
Removing or adding a part

Each subtraction an addition
In the quest for a counterpart
One zero sum computation
Away from that elusive start

Rending each other limb from limb
Boys and girls take it all to heart

The online martyrdom parade
Each day urging another purge
It’s the same-old same-old lurking
Behind new mean meaningless words

Now the boys are all girls at heart
Adding or removing a part
Now the girls are all boys at heart
Removing or adding a part
Rending each other limb from limb
Boys and girls take it all to heart

AGG20160904

guoande seal script jpegTo read Songs about Sex, Death & Cicadas by Andrew Grimes Griffin, just click on the link. To download a pdf, right click on the link and select “Save link as…”
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Blooming Point: A Short Conversation with a Nude Eighty-Year-Old Man

Grandfather sold cod to the Portuguese.
Later in life he lost his sight, they said
He had been struck by lightning while at sea,
Which seemed strange to me. After he was dead
I learned glaucoma was the real reason.
I guess lightning made sense enough back then,
When poetry stood in for medicine.
Nineteen fifty-four was my first time here,
It already had its reputation
And there was a sense of danger and fear.
If someone you knew saw you they knew why
You were here and, for a while, a Mountie
In full uniform would patrol, swooning
From the heat as we made out in the dunes.

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Depth Charge: Blooming Point is a spectacular beach on the north shore of Prince Edward Island and, for as long as I can remember, a section of it has been an unofficial nude beach. This summer after a conversation with an man in his 80s on the beach, I learned its history as a nudist beach was much longer than I had thought.

guoande seal script jpegTo read Songs about Sex, Death & Cicadas by Andrew Grimes Griffin, just click on the link. To download a pdf, right click on the link and select “Save link as…”
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Fuck First

Love starts with a fuck
Either real or imagined
Eros or zero
Chance–and more often than not
A fuck’s just a fuck–oh well

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The Fucking Side of Me

If you’re hung and hairy, so tough and sweet,
Then you’re the kind of man I want to meet,
If you wanna turn it loose, set it free,
You’re walking on the fucking side of me.

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(Fragment of a song for Merle Haggard)

55th Birthday: A Response to Li Qingzhao’s “Long-lived Happiness (Nanchang Birthday)”

Another ride on the rock
Round the dying fireball
That makes fifty-five
I awake to March snowfall
The offer of a fresh start

Then the Grindr Hey!
It’s still dark when you arrive
Beautiful black hair
Brown eyes smooth skin and hard cock
Full of human need

For intimacy
Sexual complicity
That soft hard power
Men ready willing able
Together we manifest

Getting up a second time
New snow already almost gone
I pull the curtains
Open the sunlight dazzles
Your naked body

You appeared out of
The night disappear into
The day like the dreams
I felt move you in your sleep
Amazed within my tight arms

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For A

长寿乐 (南昌生日) 李清照

微寒应候,望日边六叶,阶蓂初秀。爱景欲挂扶桑,漏残银箭,杓回摇斗。庆高闳此际,掌上一颗明珠剖。有令容淑质,归逢佳偶。到如今,昼锦满堂贵胄。 荣耀,文步紫禁,一一金章绿绶。更值棠棣连阴,虎符熊轼,夹河分守。况青云咫尺,朝暮重入承明后。看彩衣争献、兰羞玉酎。祝千龄,借指松椿比寿。

Chángshòu Lè (Nánchāng Shēngrì) Lǐ Qīngzhào

wēi hán yīng hòu, wàng rì biān liù yè, jiē míng chū xiù. Ài jǐng yù guà fúsāng , lòu cán yín jiàn, biāo huí yáo dòu . Qìng gāo hóng cǐ jì, zhǎngshàng yī kē míngzhū pōu. Yǒu lìng róng shū zhì, guī féng jiā’ǒu. Dào rújīn, zhòu jǐn mǎntáng guìzhòu . Róngyào, wén bù zǐ jìn , yīyī jīn zhānglǜshòu . Gèng zhí táng dì lián yīn , hǔfú xióng shì , jiā hé fèn shǒu . Kuàng qīngyún zhǐchǐ , zhāo mù zhòng rù chéng míng hòu . Kàn cǎi yī zhēng xiàn , lán xiū yù zhòu . Zhùqiānlíng, jiè zhǐ sōng chūn bǐ shòu .

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As we lay down in the blood of strangers

As we lay down in the blood of strangers, 
Our tired bones made from the dust of stars, 
It would be so easy to just give in 
To despair, refuse to rise up again. 
 
Weary of television’s nightly dose 
Of horror and fear and murder, we want 
To hide away in some safe hole until 
It passes like a nightmare on parade. 
 
But this life is not a dream, it is real, 
As real as bullets, as bombs, as sirens, 
And we need to wake up, open our eyes, 
To dry our tears with the ashes of the dead. 
 
Our fears are as useless as our prayers, which 
Imagined god would we offer them to? 
The god of the killers and of the killed 
Is one and the same and his name is shit. 
 
This fictitious god who breeds hate too real 
For me and the all men I’ve ever loved 
Fades to nothing before the power felt 
As I lay down in a stranger’s warm arms. 
 
AGG20151116 
 
Depth Charge: The title of this poem is a slight modification of a line from an essay written by Isobel Bowdery, a survivor of the terrorist attacks in Paris, Nov 13, 2015.

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Our Moon Blood

An eclipse compressed
A month of lunar phases
Into mere minutes
Yet—this warping was not rushed
Rather—our love slow making

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Depth Charge: The last time there was a blood moon, it was cloudy, so I had to stream it online. Not so last night, the supermoon eclipse was clearly visible from my back balcony.