So Dom and Stef,
though still working tandem,
separate
And Dom says kids
would be better off with parents
who are straight
But his ideal
and the execution of it
don’t equate
He and his-boyfriend make
flashy clothes for boys to flaunt
on the runway
And one wonders how
such homophobia endures among
high-fashion gays
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
So there he is,
on all fours
on crisp white sheets,
angled forward
on bent arms,
shaved ass in air,
two smooth globes of flesh;
between them,
an opportunity.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
At the deli counter
in the grocery store on Sunday,
ordering sausage or something like it,
a slender, rather effeminate dirty blond
in low, tight designer jeans,
ankle boots, and snugly-fitting western shirt
unbuttoned except in the middle,
bent over a shopping cart,
ass on display,
and then his other one returns,
not what I expected–
chubby, less stylish–
but the first boy’s showing off for him;
they’ll go home and screw.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
The church might have fallen into disuse,
become more tourist attraction than place of worship;
the visitor might have wandered away from religion,
believing in tradition more than faith,
or might never have believed at all.
One might reason the ornamentation wasteful,
lament the money diverted from charity.
All true, and yet, on stepping inside,
one must yield to the power of the ethereal blue
and admit, however reluctantly, the spiritual presence.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Bridge in the background,
and the clock tower,
dunes of dirt snow,
blue banners and little huts:
A winter landscape
along the St-Laurent.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Wiry little trees in oversized pots
decorate the broad expanse
of sugar-frosting snow spread
between cake-topper buildings
whose blueprints might have come
from the idle fantasies
of a pasty chef on a smoking break.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Etched in grey the frozen city
viewed through bare branches at mountain’s top,
the distance allowing the outlines to show
but filtering out the animation.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
We are all in fear of falling asleep,
of losing our grip on the ledge of wakefulness
and falling fast into unconscious dark,
into a temporary death.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It happened to Matt on his way to the restaurant,
and he was late for his shift—three days late,
his tables unwaited.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It happened to Lynne on the way to the church;
by the time she reached the altar, her bride
had left her, the cake gone stale.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It happened to Aaron at the tattoo shop,
leaving his client with a three-pointed star,
and a pool of ink on the floor.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It happened to Lizzie watching a movie at home;
she missed the ending and left her cats
to feed themselves.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It happened to Ravi at the drafting table,
lines gone astray, figures unfinished,
engineering specs left incomplete.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It happened to Mitchell in the greenhouse,
dropping his tools and falling among them,
the plants’ cultivation neglected for weeks.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It happened to Taylor, out on a first date
with a new boyfriend. Only one kiss and then he went
before anyone came.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
It has happened to commuters on car-packed streets,
to workers in factories making gadgets,
to priests in the middle of saying Mass,
to stock-market traders while making deals,
and to thousands of students attending lectures.
We are all in fear of falling asleep
We are all in fear of falling asleep,
abridging our lives by hours, by days, by weeks,
losing our places in the waking world
as we drop suddenly into slumber
or stumble like zombies between
living and coma.
We are all in fear of falling asleep,
and of failing to know whether we have.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Through the bus window
grimed with splashed snow-sand,
a figure stands
against the cold white,
before a low wrought-iron
ornamental fence
around a bare, wet,
black-barked tree:
a woman, dark-haired,
wielding a winter-defiant
red umbrella.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Cars swish through snow slush
on hungover Sunday streets,
but indoors one sips cafe au lait
under a spinning silver ball
at the cafe in The Village.
Les voitures traversent la neige
dans les rues avec les guêles de bois dimanche,
mais a l’intérieur si boit café-au-lait
sous une balle d’argent que tire,
au café au Village.
Copyrught 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Poetry When It Comes 