at folsom i watch one man bind another

in blue saran

the sub positioned in the shape of a shamed christ 

his hole exposed to the sun as crows circle

his back bruised grey as a grandfather’s cadillac

the dom orbits in a black latex mask

this ritual as old as the day is

as these two upon the dais rosed in prayer

i participate in the spectacle by looking

it’s clear they like to be seen

grappling in this performance of power and suffering

it’s clear we like to be looking—congregants & gentiles alike

i too have been bound & done the binding

too have stood upon stages & taken my licks

none of this is new

but it’s easier to make the holy novel

to holy anything for the occasioning of a poem

haven’t yet figured how to accept it’s grown a bit boring

or that i have—that age may well have unwed me to depravity  

a queer public flogging offering up nothing but a yawn

but a fist unfurling into nice smelling soaps

that i walk through backrooms now like the ghost of a ghost

so here in this crowd of heretics i will to be fleshed back

to be disgusted into beauty

anything fishnet—leather—taped crosses over the eyes—

clamps & plugs & electrocutions—nitrates & sounding metal—

& at last turn my head to see the boy in his pig mask

kneeling in the bright gutter beside the row of urinals

begging to be made clean

as a man in a gold harness unzips

produces himself & empties onto his pig face

light reigning down—

& i well up along with the boy

as i am become a well with a boy at its bottom

& when he is done we rise together from the water

as he presses his wet carapace against the dry

& both are in this one moment undying

my gaze wanders back to an old woman in her folding chair

dressed in black distressed denim

smiling with a riding crop

she uses to conduct the crowd in & out of pleasure

& i’ve found me,

how i wish to be in the world

a part of & apart from at once

in a filthy lawn chair overlooking my own life

then her eyes are upon me