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| Stanisław Osostowicz, Binge (1939) |
At the bar I start the sketch on a scrap
of paper, draw his elegant neck (minus the scar).
This was before I could imagine my art on a larger scale,
even though I work as an illustrator, what I was in school
for. All the men I love (to draw) look tender and cool
like bottles of Coke on an August day, icy to the core.
You’d be amazed how eagerly they drop their pants for
me at my asking to draw their cocks. All I do is float
the word artist and they’re naked in ten seconds flat.
I keep the lines delicate, with just a little flare,
as soon as they leave, I call you on the phone.
Jory Mickelson. 3 poems by Jory Mickelson. Hobart, February 2, 2026.
