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By request...

Brokeback Mountain
(written and to be performed in the character of Jack Twist)*


I wish I knew how to quit you.

It tears me up
that you blame me
for all that’s gone wrong
with your life
but even more
that you hate yourself
for blaming me.

I think of you as a rugrat,
you and your big brother
running,
chasing each other,
kicking up dust clouds
playing Cowboys and Indians,
You shoot him up good, boy.

Until your daddy grabs you both
by the collars,
drags you down to that
dry gulch
to look at a man,
a dead man,
a bloody corpse
purple with death,
already picked at by vultures
attracted by the smell of flesh
baking in the hot Colorado sun…
a man whose only crime in life
was the same as ours.
“That’s what a dead faggot looks like,”
Daddy whispers in your ear
and sends a chill down your back.

That same chill drove you
into my arms
that first cold summer night.

Other men would have been screwing the sheep,
not screwing me.

Right now you’re probably screwing your wife.
Hell, we’re both screwing wives.
Got kids, responsibilities.
But you don’t talk about your family none,
You don’t talk about nothing.
Or you won’t.

That’s all right.
I got better things
for that mouth to do
than talk.
And I don’t mean fellatio,
no.
I’m talking about you kissing me,
pressing your lips
against mine,
mouths open,
tongues touching gently.
Lying on a couple of old saddle blankets
in the afternoon shadow of
Brokeback Mountain,
your rough, rope-calloused hands
gently stroke my skin
as you straddle my hips.
And our clothes ain’t even off yet!

We get to it soon enough.
I know by the way
your hips move,
you never do this with your wife.
She may call me Jack Nasty,
but I’ll tell you one thing, Ennis Del Mar:
she and you never fucked
like we do,
never made love
like we do,
sweet and hard,
taking it all in,
and letting it all out.
You and me, together,
we are explosive, boy!
Whoo!

But we always come back
to the same place,
pick up our lives as is.
I keep telling you,
it could be like this every day.
All you have to do
is tell me, say you want it.
But you don’t tell me.
You won’t.

I know it when we argue,
I know it when we’re eating beans
from a can over the fire,
I know it when I look in your eyes
and see the weight of your world inside.

I can’t make you,
I know.

You’re terrified
to end up
dead in a pit
somewhere,
because of who you are.
I don’t know,
I think I’m scared less of death
than the thought
of leaving you,
going back to that hollow,
pointless life.

I’ll take what I can get.
If that means once, twice,
three or four times a year,
I’ll take it.
If it means driving across half the country,
I’ll take it.
If it meant crawling through manure,
if it meant I’d never see my family again,
if it meant that time would end
without me holding your head
in my arms
just one more time,
I would break the laws of nature,
tear this universe to shreds
just to taste you,
smell you,
feel you near me
one more time
before it all goes dark,
before I close my eyes
one last time.


Brokeback got us good, boy.
It done got us good.



* When I perform this, I do put on a cowboy/southern drawl. I also whine a little bit, like Jake Gyllenhaal did in the film. It seems appropriate.

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