First Night, Palm Springs

Something about the lies surrounding Plymouth.
I was there with the sun pouring wine down my throat,
And I had a bit of mischief in my eyes. Not murderous
Or anything: this was the land of the palm trees and gay bars.
When I say murder, I mean I wanted blood. When I say
I wanted blood, I mean I wanted life – excruciatingly so.
What I needed was the many kinds of ephemerum.
Let’s not go there. I had just landed in a new land.
The air, abundant. The men, in groves. My body, unsuspecting.
Even the ground I walked on had the capabilities of
Getting me off. I was on S. Avenida Caballeros,
My hair was a bratty type of short. I was skinny and young.
I believed this was what the earth crouched over for
Just for a peak. I was wrong. It wanted a rib from me.
It wanted to make more and more men. Men are gross.
They want to kill you. And they did. I died on that stupid rock.
It was only my first night. So many more encroaching deaths.
So many more myths to swallow before real danger ensued.
The moon wasn’t even out that night.
Something going wrong there upon that sunlit rock.

Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Carve Magazine, Rhino Poetry, Cathexis Northwest Press, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, Maudlin House, and others.