a little boy's memories:
screaming bus rides,
clean clothes with TIDE,
little Linda down my street,
a busy, crazy mom
who stoned me
with her kisses,
fed me Chinese feasts,
took me to the movies.
We fell for your big screen muscles;
I filled with desire
like a desert's flood in summer;
from childhood's crazy, patchwork quilt
to my lush, green adolescence of guilt
and glory I broke a taboo
with you, Tab, in 1953.
Twelve at the time
I swelled in my seat.
In ISLAND OF DESIRE
you were soft sunshine.
My body screamed that night
like a teen-aged girl's
for your tight, tanned skin,
your milky smile, blond curls,
and your rich veins of cowboy blood
spilled in duels
all over Tombstone's sands.
I craved you,
wanted to be you
in the cracked mirror
of Hollywood-childhood dreams.
At home it was another story:
it turns out we share a lot;
a father's fleeing footfalls;
mothers in parallel tracks,
cracked from overworked childhoods,
one sibling, too. How I loved you!!
Your savvy, horse sense.
Loved your spaghetti westerns,
war movies, screaming scenes,
magic carpets, destiny queens.
What a contrast
with Anthony Perkins, Rock Hudson
buttoned up boys like me -
half-lives in a straight jacket -
split image of hidden homos/happy men -
hunks (except for me) hoping to pass.

YOU NEVER CAME OUT, ROCK!
What a crock!

You're now 78, Tab;
it's not the same face
on the back of your book,
but I'm still hooked
on you in ISLAND OF DESIRE.
You were my harbinger of sexual springtime,
my fantasy in sticky sheets.
Now, I'm in my own skin,
a star on the inner movie screen.
In my own shoes I feel
the cougar's sudden spring,
sigh over desert sunsets.
I still admire your intuitive gifts
for a whole life
even without a wife! Linda Darnell
never did it for me either.

Tucson, AZ