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Michael Montlack – (montlack)

Michael Montlack

The Hummus Sexual

wears sandals but no Birkenstocks,
knowing his wardrobe already
too closely resembles Peppermint Patty’s.

His vintage shirts: garage-sale bargains
(not antique boutique rip-offs)—
he prefers a loose thread or barely discernable stain
to relieve his fear of being the first
to spoil a garment older than he is.

He diets not for a Fire Island physique
but to stay fit for his next trekking adventure:
some primarily lesbian tour company
all his girlfriends talked him into taking.
The only male on a dusty bus for three weeks
(though the gals assured him there’d be more)
he will have the best time.

He goes to therapy for self-exploration not crisis.

Considers giving up teaching for nursing
(or: social work for non profit, some such).

He has no debts. He has no money.

He does not wear Patchouli
and has not worn cologne
since being told by three lovers
(consecutive not simultaneous)
that his natural scent is like musk.

In no way opposed to group sex,
he will silently lecture with his eyes—
and departure—if anything unsafe occurs.
(Imagine his sandals squeaking
on the cummy tiles as he heads for the door.)

He is an activist not a politician.
A nudist not an exhibitionist.
Loves Radical Fairies but not enough
to be called Tree or Prairie Dog.

Dislikes admitting he dislikes Chelsea Boys
but understands: they just have a case
of closet leftovers
—an urgent desire to fit in.

The first time he felt he didn’t fit in
was in an all-male bar—so amazed
and disturbed by the artifice
of a completely womanless world.

He can be seen as easy going or wishy washy
but gets his aggression out in bed,
apologizing afterwards for having left marks
and blaming his sudden second erection
on his garlic-rich dinner.

He loves his mother.
And he loves his father.

He loves cock and balls
but is certain god is a woman.

He sends thank-you cards
for all occasions—in a sloppy hand—
and doesn’t stop after being told:
No one sends thank-you cards anymore!

He does yoga but not regularly.
Plays guitar or hacky sack (whichever one, poorly).
Longs for San Francisco but lives elsewhere.
Looks like he owns a Lab or Retriever
but couldn’t subject one to a cramped studio.
Has considered a commune and the Peace Corps.

He feels certain his sexuality is a gift
and tries every now and then
to express it in a poem (of sorts).
He’ll read it to you after a few beers
and ask with eager delight
Whatcha think, whatcha think?
then buy the next round
for being such a good listener
though he knows you’re already too drunk
to follow.

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