My Life as Adam is now available for purchase on Lulu. As the next six weeks progress, it will also become available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other retail outlets as it flows through the distribution channels. You will also be able to request it at fine bookstores throughout the world.
My Life as Adam is a 121-page collection of 70 poems, many making their print debut. It is mostly autobiographical and tells a narrative of my journey to self-acceptance while struggling with the primary dueling forces of nature in the southern United States – sexuality and religion.
I will be reading from My Life as Adam on March 27 in New York City at the Rainbow Book Fair and April 10 in Little Rock at the Arkansas Literary Festival, with more dates and events forthcoming.
Never give up on your dreams, folks. It can happen. I want to once again thank those who have helped Adam come into existence. My father, of course, to whom, along with my brother, this book is dedicated. The love of my life, Christopher Baxter, and my wonderful family. My friends, both in the flesh and on the computer screen, who have provided support, comfort, and encouragement. John Stahle, Philip F. Clark, and Seth Ruggles Hiler, my publishing supergroup. Loria Taylor, David Koon, Jessie Carty, and Stephen S. Mills, whose time and opinions I value greatly. And finally, to the readers of this blog, who have taken me from a tentative, toe-dipping pseudo-poet to a manic scribe with a bullhorn, shouting from the rooftops, I say thank you, thank you, thank you. I am forever grateful.
Someday we are going to have
two point five children.
This is how they’ll be: myopic Caucasians
with updraft hearts and thistle carpets for hair,
curious challengers to the world at large
who will know the truth
about where half their chromosomes came from:
sitting in a lab with an issue of XY, Kleenex, and
a paper cup.
They will have a succession of stepfathers
and an uncle who is closer than the others
who pays child support.
They will know the story of your disconsolate womb,
and how I pressed warm washcloths on that
meadowed belly, pair of us holding hands
watching chick flicks under a lavender afghan,
talking about these future offspring over ice cream,
far-flung and foolish hopes of children
until the day we were serious.
On the unimportant holidays, maybe I’ll arrive
with belated birthday gifts in hand,
tousle a few heads. When they’ve gone to bed,
we’ll sit with lacrymatory mugfuls of spirits,
uncertainly thankful for
the shapes we take.
