Eager prey

Against you,
what defense?

That any mere mortal
breathe in air
charged by your presence
not exhale it, now your slave
No

To keep muscles engaged
thighs,
calves,
back,
neck
not fall to knees
and hands
but stand to meet
your deserving gaze

This, perhaps.

But so, while the heart
having any human quality
beats faster
dizzying
squeezing
a seething, wounded thing
its rhythm, permanently altered
suffused
conquered

No, no defense
but the only one afforded:
physical denial
circumstance
cruel, mean truth.


(I promise, I really will work on that other topic today. You know how it is sometimes--Jake just suddenly demanded some adoration from me this morning. He can be very intense and...imperative. Best to do as he commands.)

Photo: Esquire, via IHJ.

Let me in

I tremble with the need to touch you.

This ache, long savored,
swells, filling my being
at the sight of your photographed image.

That you don't understand what your pictures bring
is part of the uncanny grace that makes you worth looking at.

So much of what you are is reflected
in glimpses, snapped
like this one
capturing a moment
of shyness
of sweetness
of subtle, tantalizing mischief
as the photographer no doubt has directed this half-naked stance.

So far beyond the mere aesthetic,
your profound beauty,
and it radiates through every still frame,
every candid exposure;
your expression says you think this photo will be pure beefcake, silly.

I see it with my heart.

Not a man without his shirt
but a man, full of humility, and humor, and a desire to please.

That is the genius of this photograph: it captures the essence of you.

And that is why I tremble.

My aching, yes, to caress the dark swirls on golden skin
and in doing, touch the man inside. You.


Photo by Mario Testino, as featured in Let Me in, by way of jakegyllenhaalfan.com.

Departing

Remember, I'm going to be away for a few days starting tomorrow. So if I don't come in to post something, it's not proof that I've slit my wrists. Honest.

This is a poem I wrote for my very treasured friend, Charlene, back in April. I can't imagine anything more appropriate to leave you with while she and I meet for the first time and celebrate a friendship that we both owe to none other than Jake Gyllenhaal.




What does love mean?
Who decides when it's love
and when it's something else?

Can you tell me it's not love
just because I've never met him,
never had a conversation,
never stood in his presence?

Because I can't touch him,
can't hold him,
can't comfort him when things overwhelm?

Because I've never watched him walk away
and wondered if he'd ever come back?

Does love have qualifications?

Don't speak these other words to me--
infatuation, idolization, fandom, lust!
--and condescend to tell me that they describe what I feel

My love is as real as any other
A living, hoping, screaming thing

You cannot squeeze my feelings into one of your neatly labeled boxes just to make yourself feel better

So you, who say I do not love:
can you say to me that you do?
And how does it feel?

Do you think about him at the most random moments
(what funny thing would he say about this? or
I wonder if he's happy right now)?

Do you cry, and laugh, and sigh for him?

Do you wish him all the joys, big and small, that life may hold?

Do you marvel at the beauty of the human being he is?

Love and reason are strangers to each other
Rationality and emotion, only passing acquaintances

And all this pain,
and craziness,
and euphoria
that propels me through my waking hours
However irrational, however unreasonable
However misunderstood and derided by you
Is as precious to me as any secret
and as real as any truth

This is my heart
and it loves

Photo: IHJ.

Fixation

Fixation


Toothpicks, stir straws, bubblegum, fingernails
An endless parade of pacifying proxies
passing between those restless lips

What is it that you crave?

Watching your mouth is like soft-core porn
Your tongue, ever eager to taste the world
taunts me with its frequent flicks and licks
Such a busy, well-exercised muscle
always working something
rolling, gnawing, chewing, sucking

My whole body aches for the attention
of that insatiable, untamed mouth


(previously posted to the JW forums, 5/10/07)

All photos: IHJ.

Affliction

This, I confess
that I have been so afflicted
by a thought of you
I have sat awake these hours
slaving not to exorcise it
but savoring, for all the torture it brings.

Longing like this
impelled not by your face
--an image unparalleled
--but only the surface
of a profound beauty, so deep
it is beyond mere words.

How can anyone be all that you are?
How can I be satisfied by any less?


(Lame, but you should have seen what I wrote before this. No, on second thought, no one should ever see that.)

Photo: IHJ.

Mirror

So many times, you have said
You don't yet know who you are
And those who know you speak of a sadness unexplained

Perhaps to hear too many kind words
Can be as destructive as hearing none
Do you search your mirror for this perfect creation,
A god among men,
Fantasy of thousands and inspiration of many?
What do you see?

How could anyone live up to all that has been,
And will be,
Ascribed to you?
You are but a man, in flesh and blood;
The beauty of that flesh is incidental

While you are still quite young
With long years ahead in which you may learn by your successes
And failures
I hope that you can hear the words of your father
And realize that your value lies not
In the mirror's reflection
But in the man that stands before it

You are as unique as the rest of us
As deserving of joy
And as entitled to pain
In whatever shapes they may come
And whether handled with grace
Or fumbled
The photographs will be examined, collected, and dissected
And the end result will be the same, no matter
Because only you know your heart
And only you are fit to judge your actions

My wish for you is that you might see
All these things, ideas of you, even those you find impossible
Not as some script that you must follow
But as the reflection of all that you are,
Viewed through the eyes of so many individuals,
Each with our own dreams and needs
For it is not necessary that you struggle to embody all that others
Project upon you
When finally you understand that you are simply our mirror

If you have done what in your heart you know to be right,
Then you have done all you need do
And if you have pleased yourself,
Then you have satisfied the only one you must satisfy

There will always be millions of strangers
Who know your name
And none of them will ever know
What it is to walk around in your skin

Wonder no more who you are
--you are not one thing,
One definition to the exclusion of all others
But know that you are, whatever else,
Jacob Benjamin Gyllenhaal,
Human being


(previously posted to the JW forums, 3/26/07)

I've been thinking a lot about this piece again lately, thanks to all the garbage that I have to slog through each time I look for valid news of Jake. Don't ask me why those things bother me; I don't believe Jake is exposed to any of it, and even if he were, I doubt he's insecure enough that it would make a difference. Maybe it's a form of guilt for being part of the problem.

As a poem, it is seriously flawed, but the feeling is right. Consider it the literary version of wrapping Jake in my arms, holding him, and telling him he's loved. He doesn't need me to do that, but if he ever did, I'd be available at a moment's notice.

Photos: IHJ.

Ode, Dear

Loot at you, mister Too Good to be True!
With each passing day grows the illusion that I know you.
What you are to me, the eye cannot see,
though you shall never hear me complain of the view.

Thus is my feeling for you misunderstood.

My movie star, to me you are
before all else, a man, and human, and imperfect and good.
You are no hero, nor would I wish you so.
Never would I demand more of you than I do of myself.

Worship and reverence are not part of who I am.

Your paradox is this, that you are
unreachable, and different, and too lovely
and pedestrian, and sensible, and silly.

And so what is wrong with writing odes to a man
who is not greater than the rest, but in the ways that matter to me?
Should I not adore you because you are human?

For I can think of no better reason to love a man.


Photo: IHJ.

Futile

futile

O glorious, guileless muse!
How you taunt and betray me, at once provoking action and holding firm my wrist that ink touch not paper.
From 'neath the jumbled piles of thought in my head speaks your voice,
More! Give me more!
If only that sentiment were truly yours and not my own wistful murmur.
Tis not your humility that I lament, but your indifference.
For the caress of your eyes upon my written words
would be as the touch of your hand upon my flesh.
Instead I am condemned to forever dream of both and achieve neither.


(previously posted to the JW forums)

I'll be adding things here from time to time, like this one, that I originally shared on the forums at Jake Watch, mostly because I'd like to have them all here. This is the first.

Photo: IHJ.

I'd do it for free

This vision, so graphic
growing more vivid with each visitation
until I am there, in her place
smelling your skin
tasting your breath
feeling the heat of your hands on my body
Dangerous, my reverie
threatens to supplant reality
but I
can't
stop




(Inspiration: this comment, which I think we've all heard about by now.)


Photo: IHJ.

Speechless

Casually devastating
Hair tousled, no effort expended
Bringing me to my knees
With a posture that says,
Yeah, so?
while that piercing sapphire gaze
commands, Want me. Love me.
And, oh, I do.