Nietzche said the last Christian died on the cross;

He died again in literati Greek,

And once more in old St. Jerome’s Latin.

‘Twas a pretty death, a scholarly one,

Etched out upon a saint’s sun-hued pages,

The apostle stretching with the sun,

His eyes out to the obscure, foreign letters,

His hand out to Christ’s new sepulchre

(Perhaps it was because he knew his task

To be grizzly as such that he so placed

A clear sign of death upon his workplace).

O my sweet Jesu, we have slaughtered thee

With too many overwrought, lifeless words!

Josh Rubin

O how sweetly flows thy sweat abounding,

As in the distance war horns art sounding!

How splendidly does thy body glisten

In the golden sun recently risen—

Like a Doryphoros in Greek oil bathed!

In those crazed eyes is fire where once love blazed.

O how can it be that thee should do so,

And headstrong into an ugly war go?—

When thy body and thy soul of beauty

Are paragons to be praised lovingly

In some amorous sonnet or ballad,

Not in a bastard epic most haggard

For in this heroic form it must sing,

Though it yearns for another muse’s spring.

I wish to make no hero out of thee—

O to do so seems a profanity!—,

And yet the world hath done so already

With all of old Fortuna’s cruelty,

When she should have looked on thee lovingly.

Still, I shall sing of war most sparingly,

And always with an aching, heavy heart

That curses the day death did us part.

Lover, mine wit, mine imagination,

Know only thee and thy most sweet dominion,

And after thee all mine thoughts do hearken:

How now shall I this song of ours begin?

Josh Rubin

I love when Anthony finds his way

on my tongue. Strung from a devotional medal

inherited as a relic of an old faith,

his smooth silver back slides

between my lips like a quarter

in a slot

tied with a chain-link thread by a kid

in an arcade who tugs it

in and out 

of the game he plays, guaranteeing himself

a prize of purple coins

the color of a Lent chasuble across 

his slender neck. I’ve been baptized before,

but nothing compared to when

I found him

covered in bubbles head to cock 

to toe in our rust-lined bathtub,

a grown man reborn

in effervescent blue

suds–his giggles ringing 

across the porcelain-tiled walls 

as if it were St. Peter’s Basilica. 

When he found me

wandering faithlessly like Saul

in and out

of gay clubs and false gods 

with gaping

holes

in their self-righteous hearts,

I’d spent so long trying to kill

another guy who took up more space in my life 

than a giant 

ever since he’d killed me off in his mind.

But like an angel, my baby came 

for me in candy-red flames, sucking 

out the apostasy that stained my lips,

and for the first time in so long,

I remembered what it felt like to win.

I don’t think he knows

that I owe him everything.

Dear St. Anthony, please stay this time around,

something was lost, but I think it’s been found.

Matthew Buxton

A quick smoke,

A strong grip,

A satin ash-colored balloon tied to my body,

Bows and buttons sitting on my chest looking pretty,

Fine lines on a tight canvas displaying a beauty.

A presentation of what my mind would look like.

He asked me to pose

In what feels like a mix of contradicting ideas.

My legs are stuck to the ground

Yet my arms have lives of their own.

I’m glad I don’t see my reflection

Even though I can picture what I look like.

In this bold position

I feel different sensations all over my body.

It suits me.

As I hold my breath,

letting the white smoke cover my painted face,

I look at the emptiness that’s in front of me with a firm eye.

Odd sensations.

Katherine Khayami

isn’t it 

ironic 

that you both 

wipe your wet 

bodies down the front 

and back– 

him with his  

right 

hand and  

you with your  

left–before you even  

step out of the shower 

and grab a towel  

to dry? 

or 

how you  

both floss both  

sides of your incisors 

at the same time 

because it’s the most 

energetically efficient  

way to clean 

them? 

i used to rub  

my fingers through  

his scalp the same way 

i rub  

through yours right now  

but i’d never go  

any lower  

or you’d both quiver  

and pivot 

because you’re so  

goddamn ticklish.  

the other night 

in bed 

you told me that you  

ran into him 

at your guys’  

campus café  

when you were  

on the way  

to class. 

when you stopped 

to talk  

did your brown hair 

fall  

to the opposite side 

as his and when 

your brown eyes  

looked into 

his brown eyes 

did you 

recognize that  

i 

was the plane 

of reflection that 

bisected  

you and your 

carbon 

archetype? 

is it 

organic 

to fall 

for the  

same shapes  

of men or 

do i just  

keep conforming 

to their 

parallel 

builds because  

i can’t seem to 

fill 

the empty space? 

Matthew Buxton

I miss those days of effervescent blisses,

When Apollo and you would rain down

Upon my lips indolent sun and kisses,

Days we would spend stealing from fleet time stillness,

That in each other we might drown—

I miss those days of effervescent blisses,

When on both our minds was lovings’ loveliness,

And on each head a daisy crown—

Upon my lips, indolent sun and kisses.

Bygone bliss of past, which was, and is, timeless,

Though it wears a less vivid gown…

I miss those days of effervescent blisses,

Days when candescent bliss was to be listless,

And you would lay, if I might frown,

Upon my lips indolent sun and kisses.

I think of another apotheosis,

And I remember thereupon:

I miss those days of effervescent blisses,

Upon my lips indolent sun and kisses.

Josh Rubin

Rendition of “Musing-Giclee Print” by Michael Maczuga