Two Poems by Jameson Fitzpatrick

A Poem for Pulse

By Jameson Fitzpatrick 

 

Last night, I went to a gay bar

with a man I love a little.

After dinner, we had a drink.

We sat in the far-back of the big backyard

and he asked, What will we do when this place closes?

I don't think it's going anywhere any time soon, I said,

though the crowd was slow for a Saturday,

and he said—Yes, but one day. Where will we go?

He walked me the half-block home

and kissed me goodnight on my stoop—

properly: not too quick, close enough

our stomachs pressed together

in a second sort of kiss.

I live next to a bar that's not a gay bar

—we just call those bars, I guess—

and because it is popular

and because I live on a busy street,

there are always people who aren't queer people

on the sidewalk on weekend nights.

Just people, I guess.

They were there last night.

As I kissed this man I was aware of them watching

and of myself wondering whether or not they were just.

But I didn't let myself feel scared, I kissed him

exactly as I wanted to, as I would have without an audience,

because I decided many years ago to refuse this fear—

an act of resistance. I left

the idea of hate out on the stoop and went inside,

to sleep, early and drunk and happy.

While I slept, a man went to a gay club

with two guns and killed forty-nine people.

Today in an interview, his father said he had been disturbed

recently by the sight of two men kissing.

What a strange power to be cursed with:

for the proof of men's desire to move men to violence.

What's a single kiss? I've had kisses

no one has ever known about, so many

kisses without consequence—

but there is a place you can't outrun,

whoever you are.

There will be a time when.

It might be a bullet, suddenly.

The sound of it. Many.

One man, two guns, fifty dead—

Two men kissing. Last night

I can't get away from, imagining it, them,

the people there to dance and laugh and drink,

who didn't believe they'd die, who couldn't have.

How else can you have a good time?

How else can you live?

There must have been two men kissing

for the first time last night, and for the last,

and two women, too, and two people who were neither.

Brown people, which cannot be a coincidence in this country

which is a racist country, which is gun country.

Today I'm thinking of the Bernie Boston photograph

Flower Power, of the Vietnam protestor placing carnations

in the rifles of the National Guard,

and wishing for a gesture as queer and simple.

The protester in the photo was gay, you know,

he went by Hibiscus and died of AIDS,

which I am also thinking about today because

(the government's response to) AIDS was a hate crime.

Now we have a president who names us,

the big and imperfectly lettered us, and here we are

getting kissed on stoops, getting married some of us,

some of us getting killed.

We must love one another whether or not we die.

Love can't block a bullet

but neither can it be shot down,

and love is, for the most part, what makes us—

in Orlando and in Brooklyn and in Kabul.

We will be everywhere, always;

there's nowhere else for us, or you, to go.

Anywhere you run in this world, love will be there to greet you.

Around any corner, there might be two men. Kissing.

_____________

I Woke Up

By Jameson Fitzpatrick 

 

and it was political.

I made coffee and the coffee was political.

I took a shower and the water was.

I walked down the street in short shorts and a Bob Mizer tank top

and they were political, the walking and the shorts and the beefcake

silkscreen of the man posing in a G-string. I forgot my sunglasses

and later, on the train, that was political,

when I studied every handsome man in the car.

Who I thought was handsome was political.

I went to work at the university and everything was

very obviously political, the department and the institution.

All the cigarettes I smoked between classes were political,

where I threw them when I was through.

I was blond and it was political.

So was the difference between “blond” and “blonde.”

I had long hair and it was political. I shaved my head and it was.

That I didn’t know how to grieve when another person was killed in America

was political, and it was political when America killed another person,

who they were and what color and gender and who I am in relation.

I couldn’t think about it for too long without feeling a helplessness

like childhood. I was a child and it was political, being a boy

who was bad at it. I couldn’t catch and so the ball became political.

My mother read to me almost every night

and the conditions that enabled her to do so were political.

That my father’s money was new was political, that it was proving something.

Someone called me faggot and it was political.

I called myself a faggot and it was political.

How difficult my life felt relative to how difficult it was

was political. I thought I could become a writer

and it was political that I could imagine it.

I thought I was not a political poet and still

my imagination was political.

It had been, this whole time I was asleep.

 

About the Poet

Jameson Fitzpatrick is the author of Pricks in the Tapestry (Birds, LLC, 2020), and the chapbooks Mr. & (Indolent Books, 2018) and Morrisroe: Erasures (89plus/LUMA Publications, 2014). Fitzpatrick teaches at New York University.