I Changed My Mind About Everything

I’m canceling the projects I just announced, I cannot write those poems. I may release something this year full of poems about what I usually write about, but I cannot pretend the strange non-reality I’m awaking from is something I can lash words around.

I was validated in romance and swagger that an epic romance of mine revealed a Don Juan-level villain waiting to tear my heart apart. That the tragic romance has gone on as long as it has (still there is fall-out), is less painful or difficult than it is waking-up-living-in-a-distant-galaxy stupefied.

I am still the rebel “Dirty Mormon” guy poet and political revolutionary, and I’m sure I’ll have poem-blistering romances like Kyle and Daniel arise in my life. Unlike every other subject I write poems about, the more I write about Mason, the less I feel the world is comprehensible. If I were Albert Einstein, Mason would make me wonder if General Reletavity was just some dumb thing I thought of after a night of drinking.

Brian David out.

Why You Don’t Feel In Love

(for Mason)

It’s sad what losing

you taught me about

you. It’s—so!—sad how

I dearly love those things

very cool, sweet, sharp;

you cannot see how you to me

are cool, sweet, thumbtack sharp.

I treasure the sacred flaws

I find when I find awe;

you will not see how your

very body burns with awe.

I’m Daoist because I’m in

love with strong sensations;

you don’t feel any

blinding weight in your

presence next to me.

I guess I can tell

why you never felt

pull within our love:

if I could ignore

every last inch of my

own skin, ocean waves

wouldn’t feel at all


All This I Know, Mason

I know I am in a place in life where meeting new guys is self-care. I know that guy I met today, who asked about my past, about my walking cane, about why I wake up in the morning, asked all this slightly drunk at Balboa Park before he hugged me so hard I wished he wouldn’t be able to let go—I know meeting him was good for me. I know the crush I have on the amateur horror writer who likes how I suck dick is a healthy thing to have. I know I am moving on from you.

And I know when I first started declaring myself a priest based on a throw away line in a Stevie Nicks song, I wasn’t just being facetious, I was rebuking everything that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints taught me as a child that was hypocrisy.

That is why I know, to move on from you—to move on and still be the me, the priest who I am—means I still have to think about you, to pray on your behalf for all those things in your life that even an asshole like you doesn’t deserve to have to suffer.

I know I still have to love you, if not be in love with you. I know that God is dead but he left us here to heal his wound, this existence, this world itself. And right there, in that last little vast spot of my heart that knows all that—that is where I do.

I still love you.