When I Was Blond
When I was blond
I felt wonder-filled attraction for
I gazed at his body
All wet and shimmering in the shower after gym.
I watched him head to toe
So that I could see his face.
He saw me do it but didn’t care.
He loved my love for him.
Most men I knew while growing up
Only fucked women,
Piling them up like deer shot on a
Cold November day.
Guys always talked about women
But never about each other;
They tore women apart like so much meat for a
Women were the pristine snow where men tramped
Looking for the kill.
Their women lived in magazines and imagination,
Or in our kitchen.
They had no names, except those men gave them:
Cunt, Piece-of-Ass, A-Great-Fuck, or
My father taught me nothing of the Mystery
Or how to touch it.
Instead, he taught me how to hunt deer.
He taught me how to lie
Beneath the snow, buried for hours,
Silent, half-frozen, motionless, and hidden from sight,
Like a shadow, a ghost. A corpse.
One day he caught me gazing at a young buck
Standing all wet and shimmering in the winter light.
I gripped my gun, all ready and cocked.
But I could not move. I dared not speak or breathe
Before such Terrible Beauty.
My father swore at me and shot.
The magnificent body shuttered,
Then fell into the snow,
Into the softness and the white.
No cry, no pain. Only the echo of
My father made me watch him gut it;
He made me watch the heart ripped out.
“There, there it is!” he shouted,
And thrust it before my eyes.
I reached out and touched it, still wet and warm,
Smooth and pink beneath the dying sun.
Steam rose from its dark recesses,
Dark blood dribbled downward,
Defiling my fingers and polluting the snow.
I thought of Donnie Balcum
Standing naked in the light
And suddenly felt the confusion and the cold.
I could not look; I turned away.
I hated my father for killing what I loved so much.
One day I stole my older brother’s Playboy
I took ten women to bed that night.
They were mine, all mine!
But they had no name, no heart, no life –
Like the young buck in the snow.
But I did the Forbidden Thing,
And when it came time to pull the trigger,
I thought of Donnie Balcum standing naked in the light
All wet and shimmering,
Loving my love for him.
And I shot.
My body shuddered, falling downward
Into softness and white,
To the place where men are afraid to go.
I saw wounded angels falling gracefully
From Heaven’s Gate,
Into my eyes and then my soul.
They were wondrous spirits, bright lights
Captured in bodies too beautiful to be human.
And they were familiar.
Like Donnie Balcum.
Their Godlike hearts beat like rhythmic flames
Against my soul;
On seraphic wings, desire and passion
Unknown ‘till then rushed inward,
Calling forth floods of Joy
From the dark recesses of my soul..
“There, there it is”, whispered my Life.
I had to look; I did not turn away.
Reaching out, I touched them – all of them,
And my soul soared home.
– Anthony Boccaccio
My only poem. It just jumped out of me one day without warning. It’s a real memory of Junior High School during the basketball and hunting season. The scenes are all real, right up to the end. This sums up my relationship with my father pretty much. My mother read it after my father passed away and she cried – mostly because she was a published writer and poet and felt what only a mother could feel, I guess. It got published once in a Men’s Magazine.