She's Crying at the Mic

If I'm adrift,
Cast off and drowning in
Some sea of ages,

Because,
The shifting spotlight
Of my life,
Moved out from under my feet-

Would you pull me in?

Would you take a piece of me with you
And let the weight of
Time's water, drain itself
Out of your eyes?

Or could you bring yourself
To stop the ship?
Drag my waterlogged body
Onto the deck,
And put it on display
For all to see?

Stand at attention and proclaim
With guitar in hand,
All my greatest qualities.
Perhaps even,
While a piano downplays
My most grievous faults.
Witness to the world,
My dripping wet,
Frightening and cold
Immortality.

Would you manufacture
Everything-
All the things I was missing.
Perhaps
Let the water refract
And shift alignment
So the light of your words
Goes off its mark?

Like a spear fisher
Taking solace
In his empty stomach.

Letting time stream
Out of your gut-
Straight to your mouth,
And all over
Everything I was.
Covering all of my sins
So that I am just,
A salty still life
Painted thick in
The pigment of
Watery platitudes.

Drowned
In the perfect memories
That never were.

You're Doing It Wrong

Children,
Trying to skank
In a circle pit.
The music is good,
But what the fuck
Are they doing?

Goddammit I feel old.

In my day,
That shit got you,
An elbow to the neck.

Is this their first concert?

Oh, there they go!
Someone fell.
The universe
Is right
Again.

Masculinity

Boys,
Turn to Men.
And Men,
Turn to dust.

I believe there's
A vital moment
Somewhere in there.

Scholars say,
That adulthood comes
Tied to knowledge,
Sex sweat,
And thoughts of
Six feet of soil.

How anti-septic.

So what of those,
Who believe it is tied
To the moment his
Face breaks
Under your fist,
And he screams for
You to stop?

Some would sneer,
In self satisfied smugness
At the honesty of violence.
Contented in their,
Fang-less toothy smiles.
They,
Who have never needed
To last the night.
They,
The unproven for whom,
There is no well of strength to draw from.

They,
The Emasculated.

But,
I am not one
Who breaks bones
Simply to grow.

I do not believe
That the change
Is some finite,
Discrete instance,
With manly horns,
Drums
And a great big brass band
Simply to herald the dropping of
Your testicles.

Rather,
I believe in the best of things,
Being built on,
The best of foundations.
That an avalanche can grow,
In a properly prepared mind.

This vital moment can come.

The world,
Piling on around you.
Your back,
To the wall.
And those you thought you'd need,
Are nowhere to be found.

That you can reach down,
Past the place,
You keep
Your nightmares
And find the strength
To stand alone.

Your power will surge
In glory
And you can summon
The strength to proclaim,

"Fuck the brass band,
I'm a man now
And I don't need it."

Evening's scribbles

Like every night,
I sit bathed
In pale computer light.

As I scratch another
Witless retort to
Whichever partner
I've found for the evening.

I don't yearn
For the sound of
some banal video.
Nor the ringing nag
of a conversation window.

Only for your merest greeting.

The effect is
more or less constant.

I need to be quiet, however
To notice the rattling
of that empty
Part of me
That you fill.

I know
You've never understood.
Doubtless,
You've disbelieved.
You never did get
Why I feel the way
I do.

There's something
In your eyes,
And the slowness
Of your smile.
It just brings

A fire out in me.

But every evening's
Dreaming is answered
By itself.
I know,
When I think of
Your eyes-
Those lips-
Some joke off your tongue.
Or your every
Wondered
Curve.
That they are
In the arms
Of another man.

My want for you
And your perfect,
Happy living
Emasculates me
With all of the
Kilometers
That we are apart.

But that slow smile
Still sticks with me
Every time.

Every time.