85 to 88 of 100


If I could choose
To love just one
He, the most deserving
To be normal
And not so self-serving
To settle down
And end my incessant jetting and swerving

To do what’s right
And love him back, finally and fully
I would be choosing
To not be me, wholly and truly
He wouldn’t love that person
And all would turn ugly, imbalanced, ruined, unruly

And so it must continue
Like this, a friendship
They don’t understand
They coax, question, try to convince
We laugh, but I hope
The truth I state here is not lost on him
Sweet friend, is it?


Must we name names in this charade this repetitive game where after all aren’t we all the same?
Must we say nay turn away those gone astray only to find it’s you it’s us on another day?
Must we save face choose hateful honour choose lonely pride over our common our recognizable our bond of disgrace?

May we share shoes and hues of blue and the one sun and this one land
May we see a synonymous skin and bathe in ubiquitous blood and hold hands
May we break bread with all our brothers and Moses and The Joneses and they will learn they will understand

Let us not wait nor delegate our fate to our brother
Let us stand up and demonstrate to one another
Let us keep the faith in ourselves and our world and all our lovers

Let not the hands of time stand still
Let not the heart forget it’s worth, it’s will
Let not the sword behold you but the quill


Sleeping dogs don’t stir
Wide open doors welcoming winding staircases never-ending, crumbling down yet still climbing
Doors so withered paint so peeling but still swinging so they stay
Doors wide open onto other lives, living rooms and snapshots of still life I spy with my every eye
Still life, I love

Lying dogs lay beneath a hellish heat
While men, sitting in stoops, standing in the streets, smoke cigarettes
A hundred hands hailing Ford Fairlanes already full
Papered peanuts and penny candies for five pesos, please
Still life, I love

Happy with a noose
Havana, I love you.


A little book of poetry
From Shakespeare and Company
My thoughts with you here in Paris
My sweet, poetic, young Rosny
Imagining you here with me
Shock, disapproval, curiosity
They start to drive a wedge between
With all of their reality
You and I and so I keep you in my dreams
The only place where we can be
My sweet Rosny, I say to thee
Both wait for me and also please
You mustn’t wait for me
You see, I’m too old and ugly
And afraid to love thee

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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