Elliot D. Smith believes in the power of tattoos and reference books. He currently works with people with conviction histories, helping them to reduce barriers to employment and housing. Elliott also conducts research on masculinity, friendships, and identity formation. His writing tackles issues of gender, sexuality, and family, and is greatly influenced by the people and places he loves.

Two Poems (March 20, 2011. Issue 26. The SLAM & FLASH Issue!)

No Big Secret
after Bikini Kill “For Tammy Rea”

I like women.
Women in high heels who slow sip whiskey
far straighter than they are;
Women flaunting tank tops and tattoos
telling stories of tethered promises.
Women who borrow hips
from cupcakes and six packs.

I like women
who love without a plan,
who fuck in the time signature
of riot grrl,
and make love out of white-knuckled-headboards
and handcuffs.

This is a pick up line
smeared across my pillowcase
in the three fingered fashion of last night
asking for more.

I like women
who smile morse code
(long long short short short long long)
into the payphone of my subconscious
and tell the operator to fuck off.

Which brings me to you.
I know we haven’t been on a “date”
yet, but I checked our romantic compatibility
on astrology.com, and boy are we in trouble.
Apparently our union is one
of innate practicality, and I don’t know about you,
but that terrifies me.

Let’s pretend we’re seventeen,
when my version of chivalry was sneaking you in
to my parent’s house.
We’d watch infomercials til 5am,
then, when the earth conspired to freeze you
out of your car,
I’d bring glasses of hot water
to melt the ice.
I would’ve rather chiseled your bottom lip,
chipped away at your smile until I could hide there,
let your tongue lick my wounds,
but I wasn’t that smart.

Instead, I waited ten years,
listening always to our favorite song,
“Past the billboards and the magazines
I dream about being with you,
we can’t hear a word they say,
let’s pretend we own the world today,
the sunny side of the street where we are.”

I have walked the sunny side
of every street
looking for your shadow
only to be disappointed by congruent strangers.

“Wipe the tears from my face.
Wipe the sweat from my hair,
tell me we’re not better off” (alone).

For Everyone Not Convinced By Dan Savage’s “It Gets Better” Campaign

They say tranny. Say burden. They say not welcome at the funeral
but don’t jump off the damn bridge. They say it gets better. Say just wait,
it’ll get better. Say stand still while we throw stones, you look like a faggot
when you dance. They say glass house. Say shatter. Say bleed, bitch.
They say stained glass makes the best windows. Say they see us.
They say they know we’re making love. Say dangerous. Say queer.

They say shotgun. Say smile, sissy. They say put down the pen,
stop telling the same old story. Say marriage. They say equal.
Say fudgepacker. Say disgusting. They say chase this carrot
dangling in front of you. They say it’s a special right to chase that carrot.
Say tolerance, like we’re poison. They say they’re letting us live
but we’re killing ourselves. Say mama’s boy.

They say you look pretty with that rope around your neck, pussy.
Say you tie knots like a fag. They say can’t even kill yourself right. Say boys
will be boys. Say you throw like a girl. Say right off the bridge like a girl.
Say fairy. Say Stonewall. Say that closet won’t keep you from getting spit on.
They say they know where to find us. Say no homo.

They say fuck the boys who did that to you but raise boys who do this to us.
Say smear the queer. Say in public. Say hospital, if you’re lucky.
They say no home for a homo, no job for a queen. They say if we behave
we can die for them. Say don’t ask, don’t tell. Say even after repeal.

They say faggot. Say bitch. Say faggot. Say homo. Say faggot. Say flamer.
They say they’ve never seen flames like this before.

No, they’ve never seen flames like this before.