Archive for the 'Valentines' Category


“Ad Vitam Aeternam,” or…”Advice to a Valentine.”


Do not pray for Love.
Pray for Time.

The cruelest thing about Time is that it selfishly persists ever on. Time has no means to understand that what was yesterday, is today, no longer. It brutishly powers forward, ignorant of your attempts to quell the tide.

Time has no idea not too, too long ago, someone made you feel light and hopeful; shiny as a new dime. And while everything has returned to the way it was before him, nothing is quite the same.

And though he didn’t stay long enough to move furniture, or leave little this and thats behind; while there’s no abandoned and re-appropriated, over-sized tee shirt to cloak about your shrunken shoulders; no smell of him clinging to air or sheets–a vacuous, empty space, molded in the likeness of his frame, moves about your house like a specter; touching every table, chair, wall, surface like a stain.

Time is both benefactor and robber baron.

It lays expansive swaths of moment before you like an afghan, inviting you to lose yourself in the eternity of it all. And only when you are secure in the warmth of covering does it rescind itself, begging your pardon while taking its leave.

Do not pray for Love.
Pray for Time.

Because no matter how desperate the entreaty, how earnest the plea, Time advances. Moving you so far away from that briefest of windows where hope ran wild and uninhibited.

Let not your head be overly-concerned with love. Love is too extraordinary a measure for the ordinariness of us.

And though it is beset on all sides by enemies–dejected, bitter apostates of every kind—Love bears it out, a stronghold unto itself.

So do not pray for Love.
Pray for Time.

But should Time grant you Love, mind its temporality. Do not restrain it, track its movements, cluck disapproval or furrow brow when it dares dip south of your estimation–for it surely will.

Rather, say, simply:

Our moment may be brief.

 It is wasted with talk of fate. Neither do I care to consider that which is destined or pre-ordained. I do not know that I believe in all of that; that there is enough hope left in the world to even dream a scenario whereby our paths are inextricably bound.

 But in the hush of night, when all is still, you are the answer to every question my heart asks.

 Your name is the benediction at the close of each breath.

 I do not want to do anything, anything, except talk to you about nothing, and everything, until however long, whenever is, forever.



Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho, Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances, or Valentines Day pt. I.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

That is not how much it costs to keep a starving child alive in the Sudan.


One dollar a day is the amount Redbox charges my friend, Michael, every day he does not return the movie that he rented from them.

Well over a month ago.

Is Michael a billionaire? Is Michael free from worry and a devil-may-care persona?


Michael is a gay.

He is a funny, over-educated, good looking, well dressed, gay, who has single-handedly hip-hop ab’d his way to a waistline smaller than mine.

But it’s overwhelmingly tough out there on the mean streets of the DC gay market (which we affectionately refer to as the “garket”). His last encounter with a seemingly well to do lawyer type resulted in him leaving said lawyer’s posh, upscale pad in such a state of disarray that he forgot his rented Redbox movie.

One dollar a day.

One dollar a day.

Because, to add insult to injury, psychogaylawyer won’t return the movie.

I’d like to know, Valentine’s Day, oh maker of all things both lovey and dovey—does Hallmark make a “Thought our shit had promise, then you acted a fool, so give me back my movies you sad, thieving, motherfucker” card? Does Harris Teeter carry a double sided balloon with “Redbox” on the front and “$1 a day, bitch!” on the back?

I didn’t think so.

Sixty dollars a month.

Sixty dollars a month.

That is not how much it costs to keep two starving children alive in the Sudan.


That is how much it costs me to get a mani/pedi every two weeks.

Do I have a problem with how my feet feel? Do I hate my feet in their natural state?


They’re my fucking feet.

But I pay a delightful Vietnamese woman named, Sunny, sixty dollars a month of my hard-earned cash so that the edges of my heels don’t feel like dried out biscuits when they rub up against the calves of the man I love.

Riddle me this, Valentine’s Day—does 1-800-Flowers make a “Baby I love your ashy, chappy, rock-kicking, sandy biscuit hobbit feet” arrangement?

Does it?

I didn’t think so.

What about my girl, Michelle, Valentine’s Day? Is there a “Yeah, whatever, call the cops. Yeah, I keyed that bitch’s car. What the hell is she doing in your house with the lights turned off?” box of specialty chocolates that Godiva makes?

Are there Sweethearts candies available that spell out, “I-swear-to-God-this-baby-is-yours” or “False-alarm-it’s-not-vd?”

Let me guess. No.

Here’s the thing.

I hate you, Valentine’s Day.

And this isn’t one of my misanthropic, self-indulgent wallow sessions, either. I’m not decrying the legions of people forced to affect sentiment through a meticulously-calculated, mass-marketed, grossly-commercialized completely made up faux holiday, whose origins have absofuckinglutely nothing to do with love.

I hate you because your existence is the epitome of taxation without representation.

Me and my friends—we spend good money on love/lust’s pursuits. We invest time and expend effort. I let some random chatty bitch touch all on my feet two times EVA-REE month, and none of your day’s lilac-scented, sugary prose ever even hints at our struggles.

And I’m not asking for the moon, Big V.

I don’t need a Pretty Woman II: So you Married the Ho; or a Dirty Dancing Redux: Johnny Probably Can’t Spell and Baby only knows 2 Dances.

I just want the tiniest smidge of reality. A dose. An e-card that says, “Every time I think of you I fist pump the sky.”


July 2019
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a history of my meanderings….