Three Poems by Thomas Hobohm

Stop Calling Me Smart and Have Sex with Me Right Now

I like running I like scissors I like blood I like it everywhere I like lying I like a good story I like my hair I like inhaling it I like choking I like to gag I like to yank I like the strands I like my esophagus I like self-control I like a soft pillow I like a warm bed I like hard literary drugs I like the rain I like the disgusting sun I like a clear sky I like lightning I like the public toilet I like Market St. I like the cage I like my body I like to beat the shit out of it I like coke I like a black toilet I like discovering new techniques I like torture I like the third floor window I like jumping I like two broken legs I like to choose my own adventure I like to strut around shirtless I like it rough I like you Now when are you going to break my heart I like you When are you going to I like you When I like When are you going to break I like you to break my heart When I like you are you going to break my heart When I like When


I Did It All for Love

Seriously, I bought reference books
on flowers, birds, and cacti,
because I wanted to write poetry
that felt real, like the greats,

those disgusting men.
When I read Rimbaud,
I googled each awful plant
and tried to draw it in the margins.

God, it’s a beautiful world,
but nobody taught me
how to name it, as a child
without vocal cords

I admired everything and
didn’t care for symbols.
Now, the same lukewarm words,
always the green trees, pretty flowers,

white snow, bright sun, tall shadows,
love, death, grief, joy,
and I, I wish it all
added up

to something.
I wish you, reader,
saw your reflection here
and found it unrecognizable,

how I felt the first time
I read Natalie Diaz
with a dry mouth and
geckos all over.


New Year’s Eve, 2022-2023

It’s a grimy elevator. Quick,
get in. You’re serving so much cunt
I’m scared, it’s terrifying, I’m shaking
in my black leather boots, genuine 4-inch heels,
half my size, but who’s counting? Now
gay men of a certain age take sports
seriously, too seriously for me,
I just lift weights and shower
with a bottle of muscle milk, brown chocolate
running down my chin, cutting the steam. I walked
backwards into all my deepest desires,
that’s how I ended up here, lost
in a nightclub so unfathomable
it even has an elevator! A godsend, can’t take
the stairs in these platforms,
you know how it is. I’m dancing so hard
that all my limbs, but especially my right instep,
hurt like hell. If I can do this, couldn’t I
play tennis, too? He’s obsessed with it,
I’m obsessed with him; it just makes sense.
But he likes older guys. He likes older
guys. I could take tennis classes, I could
go to a camp, it wouldn’t matter.
I’m so far gone. This DJ is great. I’m
getting stronger every day.


Thomas Hobohm (they/them) lives in San Francisco but grew up in Texas. They never learned how to drive. They like playing volleyball and watching old movies. They have work published or forthcoming in So to Speak, just femme & dandy, and Stone of Madness.