No title as of Yet (on going story)

In less than two weeks he goes to jail for contempt of court;  Mark was unwilling to testify against an old
lover, fearing Michael's imprisonment would literally kill him.  He was too gentle a soul to live in prison, the
hard-core convicts would kill him with "love".  Prison is not an easy life for a pretty boy, no, a pretty rich boy.
A pretty rich boy, who was just now learning to be less-than-selfish, expecting the world to bow in some sort
of crazy genuflection.  Which of course, is weird, since Mark once  was a monk , only weeks away from
priesthood.  Strange where life took him.  Or he took life.  And that's the beginning.  Michael  would have gone
to prison for attempting to kill Mark's then-current lover, Emily. 

You see, Mark is  a true bisexual. When he loves a woman, he loves a woman, when he loves a man, he loves
a man. No ifs ands or buts about it.  And, strangely enough, he was totally devoted, always present, always true
blue, so to speak.  Not that it got him anywhere but a few days away from 4 months of jail. 

The DA was hopping mad; the judge, taking everything into consideration, as all good judges do... still had to
deal out just punishment.  And four months was not that terribly long to spend in lieu of a lover with whom he
couldn't  fall out of love it.  Not really.  Not ever.  Their relationship just crossed over too many love stories:  an
older man and younger man, a father who had no son, a father confessor to an unwilling penitent. 

Actors, we're all actors on a stage in any case, and Mark did voice-overs and played piano, singing the old standards
at a gay bar in LA.  He had run-ins or meetings, as the case would be, with Mother Theresa while a monk in NY, or
Charles Bukowski, the unwashed raw poet while he was learning some of his lines in an actor's studio.  Not
that Mark was ever one for rehearsed lines, he was far-too-innocent and bipolar disorder led him down another
garden path:  And several suicide attempts.

We met on the net on a few years back... Did I tell you he was Irish?   How I love to hear his stories,how I love that
voice.  He could always turn on the charm as easily as he let the tears flow.  Poets.  They're all the same.  Right as
rain and soft and mushy inside.  Strong as a steel magnolia that punches you in the gut with its glinting beauty.