Jameson Fitzpatrick lives in New York, where he is pursuing his MFA at NYU. The book columnist for Next Magazine, he also writes and edits for Lambda Literary Review. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Awl, Knockout Literary Magazine, Stirring, and Vinyl Poetry, among other publications.
The season of married men. The fall
I couldn’t get enough of them. Their expensive watches
and long weekday lunches. The cold cliche
of a wedding band against my cock. I cried
all over town. Met a successful writer
and let him fuck me bareback in a stairwell
because he was a successful writer. Sorry Mom.
Once he ate me out in a famous lesbian poet’s apartment.
I thought: This is the best moment of my life.
Later I’d sleep with men more famous than him
and each time think: This is it. What I was born for.
Today I made another poet cry without meaning to,
with purpose. He’s famous. I’m Nobody, I thought,
why not? Every night I ask myself: How many more
people know your name than knew it yesterday?
Some months I spend so long looking in the mirror
I forget to leave the house. This is how long it takes to tell
how bad I am.