The young kid, horror buff, monster Commissar, ghoul connoisseur,

attic bedroom postered with violet skulls, cigarette butts on the floor,

thinks he’d strangle girls after orgasm – Pumping iron 13 years old, 175

pound muscleman, his father shot at him, missed, hit the door, he saw his

mother’s tiny apron, father clutched his throat, six foot four drunk,

today’s in Alcohol Anonymous.  Even eyes, symmetric face, aged

twenty, acid-free-plastic packages of Ghoul Ghosts, Monsters Nowhere,

Evil Demons of the Dead, Frenzy Reanimator, Psycho Nightmare on Elm

Street stacked by his mattress; he followed me around, carried my

harmonium box, protected me from the drunk Tibetan, came to my bed;

head on his shoulder, I felt his naked heart, “my Cock’s half dead,” he

thinks he’ll cut if off, can’t stand to be touched, never touches himself,

iron legs, “skinny dynamite,” thick biceps, a six day black fuzz on his

even jaw, shining eyes, “I love you too.”