ANDY PLUMB: Poetry & Prose

figure looking out to sea


For My Bob: February 3, 1924 to November 22, 2002

I dreamed
and so I dreamed
and dreamed again and again
that my Bob had changed his mind
and wanted to live
and to heal his body
and to journey with me to even more wild and exotic worlds
and deeper into the strange and beautiful
he swore this time that he was over his yearnings to die
that he’d take the aches in stride
and the pains would dissolve as we’d begin each adventure
and so I took him to the end of the earth
and as we watched a sky of swirling, whirling colors
my Bob ventured onto the precipice
and with all the strength he could muster he leaped out
and rode a streaming wave of light
toward the nothingness or everythingness beyond the end of the world
and as I cried and screamed for him to come back
he looked around and smiled his ever loving smile and said
“so I lied,” and all I could do was smile back and wave a tearful goodbye



My pressure rises
and still I am thin.
I sprinkle garlic on my tongue,
and meditate on the spaces between.
How come I cannot feel my own heart?
The wrist gives clues,
so does the neck,
but the heart remains deeply mysterious.
I think mine needs realignment,
maybe rotated with my liver and kidneys, like tires.




“Which gender are you today?” the shrinking man asked me.
“All of them,” I answer with a big smile.
“Choose one,” he says with a bit of a frown.
“That’s impossible,” I reply.
“You have to make a choice.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t say, I can’t, when you really mean, I won’t.”
“I REALLY MEAN, I CAN’T! It goes against my very nature.”
“You are a silly boy.”
“Silly, maybe, but boy, I don’t think so.”
“So that means you are a girl?”
“I never meant that at all.”
“Why do you make things so difficult?”
“I am not talking about Einstein’s Theory of Relativity here (then again, maybe I am). Anyway, I find it most difficult to live in a box labeled boy or girl. I would rather explore the land betwixt and between, or should that be, above and beyond, the traditional gender boundaries.”
“I am sorry, but if you do not have a gender, no one will know how to relate to you.”
“Now that is SILLY.”


“Ok, let’s move on,” the shrinking man exasperatingly expressed.
“Which sexuality are you today?”
“What are my choices, as if I did not know?” I replied with a grin.
“Heterosexual or homosexual?”
“Don’t you have something a bit more exotic? You always present me with the same two flavors.”
“You will just have to pick one or the other.”
“How about if I take one AND the other. That would make more sense
to me.”
“You want to be bisexual?”
“Sort of, though I find that too limiting a sexual identity, also. But just to make life easier for you, I will be bi for the moment.”
“I’ll mark that down, but first I must tell you that in our extensive research, we have proved that there is no true bisexual. The deeper we have probed into self-claimed bisexual men, they turn out to be either heterosexual or homosexual.”
“Oh, come on! I enjoy a woman’s smile and lovely breasts and a man’s voice and his hard thing between his legs; as well as, on occasion, another tranny’s thing between her legs.”
“But which do you prefer?”
“Is it Monday or Tuesday? Am I wearing panties or cotton briefs?”
“Oh, you infuriate me!”
“I know, and it’s so much fun!”