A Horse Named Sorrow

18

72 18 Islept in camp­ grounds—all up Cal­ i­ for­ nia, all the way to Eu­ gene— among red­ woods, on riv­ ers, some­ times near mot­ o­ rhomes or young hik­ ers with tents. I al­ ways ­ camped a ways off ­ though, on my own in just my sleep­ ing bag on a foam pad, with Jimmy, a pile of dust in a vel­ vet bag, held close ­ against my belly in the ­ pocket of me, under a huge vault of stars and a travel­ ing moon. And I won­ dered if I’d ever tell any­ one about Jimmy. And what would I say? “Grungy, ­ scruffy . . . horse­ boy . . . ­ sloppy ­ bleach job . . .­ gangly . . . door­ knobs for shoul­ ders, knees, and el­ bows . . . pants baggy—­ there’s not a belt that could hold any­ thing ­ around that waist . . . eyes, eyes that . . . that . . . Here, look into mine—they ­ matched these like an ­ electric cord ­ matches a wall ­ socket.” Some­ times cars would come into the camp­ grounds late, and ­ there’d be that search­ light swing of the head­ lamps that would pass over me, re­ mind­ ing me of when I was a lit­ tle boy after Mom had ­ tucked me into my bed in the apart­ ment in San Lean­ dro, and I would watch all the­ lights flash­ ing ­ across my ceil­ ing, which Mom told me were an­ gels and shoot­ ing stars. But, in fact, they were the head­ lights of cars from the free­ way, named for an­ i­ mals and In­ dians: ­ Pintos and Cher­ o­ kees, Dodge Da­ ko­ tas and Fal­ cons, Win­ ne­ ba­ gos—and even some with names from deep space: Vegas, Co­ ro­ nas, Novas, and Co­ rol­ las. All going who knows where. 73 In the woods, there were shoot­ ing stars for real, and they got me re­ mem­ ber­ ing the plas­ tic glow­ ing ones Jimmy and I ­ pasted on the ceil­ ing in Guer­ rero ­ Street—and the ­ string of Christ­ mas ­ lights we ­ wrapped­ around his bike for the hol­ i­ days that ­ blinked at five dif­ fer­ ent ­ speeds in five dif­ fer­ ent col­ ors. Look­ ing up at those ­ Day-Glo stars, I’d ask him, “Who are the Three Wise­ men, Jimmy?” “Jimmy, Sea­ mus, and Pri­ a­ pus,” he’d ­ snicker, right on cue, his bi­ ceps flex­ ing as he ­ pulled a re­ ver­ sal and ­ pinned me with a kiss. And the gifts we gave? Cock, and ass, mouth and nip­ ple and belly and flank, leg and arm and foot and hand—and ­ things from way in­ side: our sa­ liva, our cum, our ­ hearts. Lit­ tle drum­ mer boys. And we ­ drummed each other good too. I had half a mind to make love to Jimmy when I’d get to think­ ing like that. To drive my ­ slimed mem­ ber into the dust of him. Jimmy, who I held close to me like a warm chunk of coal that I’d heard the Jap­ a­ nese Zen monks use at night in the mon­ as­ ter­ ies high up in the moun­ tains where it’s cold and they have no fur­ nace. Just a lump of coal they hold to their heart. Be­ cause it was cold among the red­ woods at night. San Fran­ cisco cold, but no Jimmy and the silk ­ warmth of him. What does love feel like to the touch? The silk of skin. What does it look like? Tall, ­ brown-eyed, ­ horsey, with ­ knobby knees and shoul­ ders. How does it taste? Like cold water on a hot day, or jas­ mine tea when it’s rain­ ing out­ side. And what does it sound like? Buf­ falo twang. And how does it smell? Like Clo­ rox. Yeah, and ­ bleach kills every­ thing. All I am is clean. Clean out. Clean outta Jimmy. ...