Fame is a Gun
There could be 100 people in a room and I slept with 23
Ok, you got me, 68
It’s always paradoxical when I enter a gay bar
I know everyone but no one at the same time
The shallow hellos and the deep goodbyes
The kisses on the lips, the forgotten names
Many are familiar with my tongue, few familiar with my prose
A perfect stranger, yet a friendly tenderhearted face
Addison Rae once said that fame is a gun
Guns and Fame are intrinsically lonely
Notoriety is a cannon
They put me on a pedestal of sweet nothings
An esteemed plaque awarded to someone with a first name scribbled in pencil
They don’t know my middle name
Only the bartenders know my last name
I make my rounds like a humming bird fluttering from flower to flower
We touch on topics plucked from a rainbow magic eight ball
When conversations get personal I dissipate into the ether like an ephemeral thought
Others need my small talk and saliva
He calls me over for a meet and greet
I leave the club covered in seminal fluids
69, the count is now 69
Will they ever know I wrote this poem about them?
Ricardo Martini is a queer poet living in Brooklyn. Through his work he explores queer, immigrant, latine, and quotidian topics. He’s read at several venues across the city and aspires to publish more of his works.
The Marbled Sigh 