The Missing Generation

I'm rolling along with a missing link.
I feel like the Shel Silverstien Pie,
Looking desperately for my missing piece.

I'm an Early Thirties Gay Man.
Trying to figure it out.
Looking around for guidance,
Hints at a better way to do this,
A better way to live.

Where are they?
Where are the middle aged gay men.
The generation that is supposed
To guide me into the next
Part of my life?

I ache for those left.
Those that survived the plague
Only to realize that half of their
Friends are gone.
I'm sorrowful for those
Of us coming afterwards.
We have so few guides.

Our generation is the most Out.
The one after mine,
The twenty something
And now teenagers
Are more out than even we imagined.

Dating in high school?

It's up to us to pave the way.
We need to forge the future for
Those who are young and looking
Forward with hope.

In my youth I was bombarded
By everyone to be an activist
A patriot, a saint, a conservative leader.
I rejected all of those.
That wasn't me.
Couldn't they tell?

Now I want to be a leader of a different kind.
One that helps fill the gap
Where there is emptiness.
Step into the shoes of the men
Who were robbed of decades of life.

We all need to rise to the occasion.
Mature a little faster than
We might like.
Find that path, that life,
That way of being that is uniquely
Our own, yet an example to
Others.

An anthem for the missing generation.

Summer Gays

They're on the pier, sweat glistening,
Oiled and tan, bulging muscles,
Insecure and fragile.
Afraid of not being perfect.

They're in the burbs, painting and gardening,
Cooking and barbecuing,
Fearful and silent.
Afraid of standing out, being noticed.

They're in the bath houses and sex clubs,
Pumping and groaning,
Hiding and hating.
Afraid of loving themselves.

They're in the offices,
Talking sports and business,
Bringing "friends" to the office party.
Afraid of losing their jobs.

They're in the church,
Praying and singing,
Hurting and confused.
Afraid.

We're everywhere,
And despite the fear,
Hurt, hatred and confusion,
We're still here.
We're still queer.
Get used to it.

Sex n' Roll

The pounding rock music is in my ears,
As I kiss your beautiful white neck.
Drumming beats drive the passion.
Though you are in my bed I can
Still taste and smell the
Crowd on you.
The music has also left its
Residue on your back,
Your arms,
Your lips.

You are a feast of the evening.
I consume you with vigor
And delight.
Each flick of my tongue brings
Back more from the night.
The hair on your chest
Traps the scent of
The singers
Sweat and tears.
Your cock makes me think
Of the screaming fans.
Our rubbing bodies recreate
The performers fire on stage.