Creaking floorboards

Creaking floorboards

beneath the broken splatter of thunder claps
which fills my head, please promise
to take my ache instead,and
hold me tight against your chest, so
I can feel the love which
creaks like the floorboards leading
to my room, when I
had a room, then I
carried you,
light as a
memory, no, that's
only how I remember but you
must have weighed something, perhaps
as much as a hope, or a dream, or a vision,
or maybe I was wrong, maybe
you were heavy, like a promise,
as much as a word, or a kiss, or a held hand,
and maybe I was
always meant to lead you
to my room, when
I had a room, before I
carried you,
or at least,
what's left of you,
in remembering,
what's left of you,
when I hear the broken splatter of thunder claps,
when I think of you holding me tight against your chest,
when I hear the floorboards creaking.

A Parisian tomb

There is a tomb for a girl whose name I do not know, and whose face I have never seen, except for in dreams, and once in Paris, I saw her tomb and it was raining and it was cold, but her grave seemed bright, because someone had erected a statue of a girl, a golden girl, and the rain formed rivulets as it rode down her luster and collected in the flooded soil below.

Beneath this chapped memory which is dry beyond belief, there is a place where I will go to hide the fact that I no longer remember, that so much of what I have done seems as if it was seen from a stranger’s eyes, and that wherever I should go, it will be another’s footsteps imprinted  behind, like mirrors which show the effects of age, which we cannot see within the mind’s eye.

It is on nights such as this, my eyes blurred and wearied by the careless window of a search engine, that I feel the tips of my fingers – still soft, still whole – and wonder why I have spent less time bleeding, less time rubbing my palms raw, less time pounding away at keyboards in time with the rhythm of my off-beat heart, as I do now.

There is nothing I can imagine more from a misspent life, than this, and there are other thoughts left to say, tonight even, but I am unable to express them in words so I will retire my fading lips and tired tongue and close my eyes and think of sleep.

Atrophy

I'm listening.

it's not there, it
should be, does
it make a
sound,

should it?

I know I can feel it
if I just reach
beneath this
shirt, skin
to skin,
feel

blood pumping,

breathe me life, it
should be here.

I'm too selfish, I'm always
starting my poems with me, with
I, I am, I can, I will, I will be,
I'm so obsessed with my pronouns which
I will never escape, if I

look in the mirror and say

that I love your sadness

would you hate me? not
to cause, but rather, to know
how eyes can shine so full and wide like
the dying sky, can seek to
understand, yet never
believe their
own worth.

you always see the good in others,
but never in yourself,
you always see the bad in others,
but never past your own,
you always seek to understand,
but never to move on,

and because I am selfish, and
am always thinking of myself,
what does that say of me,
to want that?

returning to you on a
cloud that is about to burst, you
hold your hands out as if to catch my rain,
but I fall through you and disappear,
as quickly as I came.

you don't think you deserve happiness,

you don't deserve happiness.

Morning song

you can tell yourself dreams are okay,
they will carry you, a balloon, far away,
and then drop you off here, return back to this day,
a life is the price that you pay.

do not wonder if things are amiss,
or if light does exist, outside of this mist,
and if they should question, the intentions of this,
just finish your words with a kiss.

there's a question that lies on your heart,
but be careful, when lighting, another spark,
and if answers prove harder than your stand-alone parts,
remember to leave and not start.

so drink fully, the coffee is black,
it captures your soul in a deep, bitter sack,
and if sleep tortures you on its cumbersome rack,
roll over, and rest on your back.

but your lips leave me deaf in my ears,
they whisper such hopes as they count down the years,
and as long as you're here, know you'll quell all my fears,
come closer, please promise to stay.

In response to "Why Men Aren't Really Men Anymore" by Paul Hudson

The column is titled “Why Men Aren’t Really Men Anymore,” though really, it could have been the placeholder for any other misplaced “nostalgia” for a time and place that never really existed, which always seems to creep across the Internet in the guise of well-intentioned advice.

The formula is simple. Pick something you don’t like about the world. Then use a ton of anecdotal evidence from your infallible observations to prove that what you see is reality. Oh, and that reality is the result of a digression from our more gentile roots.

Of course, this one pissed me off even more than usual, because hey, I’m a man, and I’m tired of hearing other people – men or women – try to define for me what that is supposed to mean. Imagine the equally repulsive reverse article: "Why Women Aren't Really Women Anymore."

EDIT: Wow, it looks like Paul Hudson imagined that article too, because he actually wrote a second piece with that exact title. So he just hates everybody.

I realize that it was published in May, but hey, this is the first time I (regretfully) saw it.

Here's a play-by-play of all that is awful, with quotes from the column in bold.

There was once a time when men used to be real men. When they dressed with style, when they had a certain honor code they followed that involved treating not only their elders and each other with respect, but women alike.

Bro: That’s right! Remember that time, when men used to be “real men” (read: not gay, not compassionate, not nerds). It was that wonderful time – maybe back in the early 1900s? People dressed nicely then! Sure, women couldn’t vote until 1920, but hey they were treated with respect, unlike now, though I have no way to prove this.  Or how about the Victorian Age? That was like, legit chivalry. Never mind the fact that most men had mistresses and ignored their wives and shipped their children off to a farm to be raised like cattle. Who needs the right to own property of your own when you are respected by an “honor code,” which all men always followed in this glorious, unspecified time in history!

There are of course certain men out there who still have their affairs in order, but we are few in number.

Bro:   According to the poll of one I just conducted to make my completely arbitrary point. Also, there used to be much more men like this, according to another completely unscientific poll – actually, just a thought – I made up on the spot.

 What people are most often subject to is the company of boys who are refusing to grow up and man up — boys who prefer to play with their toys than to do their part in bettering society, the human race and the world as a whole. 

Bro: And there have never been such men in the history of the world until now.

[Insert random picture of a nice car]

Bro: I’m not sure why I put this here, but hey, it’s a badass car and cars are manly!

However, much of the interpersonal confrontations are now also taking place online. People no longer feel that they have a need to meet in person to discuss their differences; they can now troll each other online.

Bro: As I say this, I am completely unaware of the irony that I am posting this passive aggressive post at lesser men on an online  blog that’s presumptious enough to call itself “Elite Daily.”

Personally, when my fight or flight response mechanism kicks in, I always go with fight. It’s not by choice; it’s just the way that I am wired.

Bro: But even though it’s “just the way that I am wired,” it makes  me a better person and, inevitably, a better man than you, and does not make me think at all that I just might have anger management issues.

It is no secret that both men and women alike have sexual urges. Men, however, feel the need to get off more often than most women. So instead of having to spend the time to meet a real woman and have actual sexual intercourse, they watch porn.

Bro: Meanwhile, a real man like myself pulls out his club, goes down to the local watering hole, picks up a chick and proceeds to drag her back to his cave, showing off his manly aggressiveness, because women are meant to be waiting for me to satisfy my sexual urges.

Men have become lazy pussies. I don’t even want to use the word pussy because it brings to mind women, who nowadays have much more character than men.

Bro: It’s not because “pussy” is derogatory or just a plain disgusting word, when used in that context. It’s just because it makes me think of women, who somehow have more character in this crazy society we live in. I mean, seriously – women with more character than MEN?

We have this false belief that doing things faster will give us a life more fulfilled — that it will lead to us being happier. But that isn’t the case. Most of us aren’t happier. We do more, but we experience less. We are never in the moment because we are always considering what we will be doing next in order to not become bored.

 Bro: Wait, wait, I’ve got more generalities about the human race, as accurately surmised by my omniscient mind, which obviously thinks so highly of itself that it can interpret other peoples’ happiness and then compare it to every generation that came before us. Let me tell you about how there is no one out there who ever enjoys anything, or takes anything slow (unlike me).

Jackie never got back to your text message? I’m sure you have several other women in your contacts that you’d equally like to f*ck — once.

Bro: You guys are all pussies. I only have one woman who I mistreat, diminish and expect to be subservient to me in any and all situations (because she is of lesser character and stature, for sure). I make sure she is the only one who fulfills my every sexual whim on command.

Real men are just as concerned for the feelings, needs and minds of women as they are for their own — not just women’s bodies and their sexual usefulness. Real men have a well-defined code of ethics and respect that they follow.

Bro: This is also called just being a genuinely good person, but hey, since this article is about being a manly manburger, than let me throw in all of these platitudes to help soften up my antagonistic rant against my fellow human beings.

How can anyone call himself a man if the last time he had to confront another man — whether it be over a social incident or for business purposes — was before he hit puberty?

Bro: That’s right! How the hell can you be a man if you haven’t kicked someone’s ass since that time you stole that kid’s lunch money in middle school? I mean, am I right, or am I right? Let’s go find some nerd and beat the shit out of him to remind ourselves that we have (are) dicks!

[Insert hypersexualized picture of generically attractive people presumably having sex]

Bro: I’m not sure why I put this here, but hey, sexy pictures are manly! Also, I am completely oblivious to the fact that I just wrote “Real men are just as concerned for the feelings, needs and minds of women as they are for their own — not just women’s bodies and their sexual usefulness” and condemned other men for having “several other women in your contacts that you’d equally like to f*ck.”

Some great women are settling for these fools and then finding that they themselves have no choice but to wear the pants in the family because their “man” is PMSing

Bro: Because, seriously, how can you respect anyone who PMSes?

Ladies… real men do exist; there aren’t many of us, but we’re survivors and will be around for a while. Come find us.

Bro: I’m so going to get laid once the girls realize I’m the only real man in the universe. I’m a unicorn!

This is happiness

this,

this is rain, rather,

this is dew, it sweats

long after day has gone, then

night which goes too, and new day has arrived,

this is rain, rather,

this is dew, and newly born it

forms on outstretched limbs,

humbly, to beg of fresh 

light, this, 

this is rain,

rather, this 

is dew.

this

is the morning, seen

from Georgetown, it's quiet, the

oncoming traffic of early Washington rush

my only companion, walking

along the wall of the campus moat, 

and then across the bridge, and

down M-street, and 

down below, to

the graffiti

leaks

this

is a mirror, you

know because it ripples when

you touch, it is as temporary as the day,

and does fade, but now glimmering

along the brick of the river walk,

and then across the path, and

the water's edge,

the leaf-strewn streets,

the cobblestone

peaks

there

is a bench, it

is empty like a mourning pew

there

is a tree, it

is thin against the breaking dawn

there

is a space, it

is not meant to feel like a home

this, 

this is me, rather,

this is you, in dim

light it's often confused, you

who used to run, and I who just arrived,

this is me, rather,

this is you, and so much left to

do on borrowed time,

blindly, we cling to the

night, this,

this is me, 

rather, this 

is you

A night in four acts

come to rest at the edge of the bed, see

the winding straits of Baltimore, let the cold

in through the open window, to

the bright city lights and groaning car-horn nights,

listen to its railroad symphony, screeching

and yawning out its lullaby, your arms and legs

which sprawl out like a

compass pointing to sweet, acrimonious sleep.

sleeping, imagine the window and

its flimsy, its thin-sheet mortality, so

little between you and the city and the lights,

in a sleep-walk trance, close the window,

its lullaby too loud for soft ears bred in silence,

familiar with wanting, familiar

with needing.

and in dreaming, watch

the forces of darkness which shatter

windows, watch glass turn into crystalline webs

which ache before breaking, those tendrils of darkness

which push and then expand before, 

the breaking storm, watch

glass embolden and imprint, become pockmarks to

your dreaming face, watch as

scars so long hidden come

to night.

... and sleep ....

... and sleep ....

... and sleep ....

and in waking, remember that day

is never far, that light kisses with sun-stained

lips, that mornings are reminders that God is love,

and he is risen, again.

The Night

This was my very first poem - realized that I've never put it up on the blog, so here it is.
-----

The Night

The night is the worst,
when the distractions of the day,
like shadows, passing, fade and give way
to the stirrings of this heart,
which once felt love so.

Like a tempest I break,
No warning call, no final crow,
but down my crafted dam falls
to flood my senses in its wake.

What's left there for this,
this heart which spoke of love so dear,
but now is left to dust and ash?
for ash is all it was built upon, and
dust becomes its only worth.

How foolish in my erring ways,
to think I knew that frightful draught,
of which I drank so haughtily,
only now do I see,
the poison it hath bred in me.

And after these, my sleepless nights,
shall I truly bear its punishing might?
That which had risen me to thunderous heights,
the love I chose to live and bear,
is now my deepest despair.

Reminder to breathe

Since time isn't a thing,

imagine if this winter freeze,
became a spring fling, then
a summer breeze, before

the wind came and

blew away these fall leaves.

I've written so much about fading,

that I'm starting to believe it, just
watching my ink ache into blank
white screens, fuzzy lenses

that still come and

wash away my sleepless dreams.

and in my lucid happenings,

imagining you naked of fear, you
tell me that you are fading,
but if you wanted, I

would be flesh and

mortar to remind you of earth.

blindly leading you blind,

I would be your chapped lips, to
be your held hand, beside your
hip, be your

nightly whisper as you

fall to sleep under our stars.

anything to make you,

believe in tomato suns, and
sunflower eyes, reminder
that you are

anything to make you,

believe in the veins, which
trickle down your skin and
into your heart, which

lives, surely,

anything to make you,

know that you may be temporary,
yet absolutely necessary,
as a single heartbeat in
a lone instance of
time, with
mine.

Temporary

This candle has a short wick.

We can save it, preserve it, set it for

only moments at a time, hide it, save it for

another time, more time, time that we don't have,

we can never be burnt.

or

we can light it, let it last all night, let

it melt and settle in hot, buttery wax, let it

linger, let it burn, let it hurt long, let

our fingers touch with bitter lips, until

there is none left, until it goes out,

and maybe we will burn.

This candle has a short wick.

Baltimore, revisited

When did I become so loud?
My siren streets singing car horns and fire trucks,
passing through for the fifth time today, filling
my sea-salt air with curses and misogyny,
did it start with a whisper which turned into a shout,
crevassed between the cobblestones of Fell's Point?
did it start with my summer heat, full of
sexy and bloody death to the young men who flooded
my pointed paths?

Maybe, as winter comes, my railroad bones
will frost into snowflakes, so delicate I could taste
their sweetness on my paper tongue, maybe
as winter comes, silence will fill the void left by
gunshots and ammunition springs, leave
me to wander through my streets,
clean under the fall breeze.

Remember

memory, which can be anything you want it
to be, or nothing at all

my gay bachelors, gathered for supper,
darlings, sweeties, kisses,
have another cocktail, the best cure for
hangovers is refilling the tank, and
the one straight man (for we all bear our
crosses, they say)

my Jewish village with its crumbs, it's
coming back, the neighborhood, so
they say, it's coming back
or being made new,
 rebirth or resurrection
for the Jews?

my Washington monument is
set for repairs, my capitol says so,
$5 million for its bicentenntial, it will be ready,
and I will be pretty, and tourists will flock
to me and to local eateries, though
not like Washington, so
whitewashed in its
politik.

Remember

my soul, which
somehow, always, returns to the Inner
Harbor, remember it in the breeze
which fills sailboats, only
to leave them empty, remember
the silhouettes of words whispered in the
darkness, only lit by jellyfish waves,
which aren't really waves at all.

the problem with poetry

the problem with poetry

is honesty, this saccharine sweet truth

which drips from my chapped lips, tastes

foreign on my tongue, lingers far too long, stains

beach towels and fall curtains, which

glow as the seasons change, into

a fading bright orange.

the problem with honesty

is in the phrasing, wrapped in lettuce,

so these vegetarian hearts can take it, rather the

knock on my door in the middle of the night that

I wouldn't hear, except that I'm awake, 

honesty shakes me out of bed and

holds my weary head

in translucent arms.

the problem with poetry

is honestly, me, it's these tapping

keyboard fingers, riding my translucent

arms up into my shoulders, down into my chest,

this vat of blood and oxygen and syrup, 

it professes knowledge it doesn't

have, it dreams up passion 

it still doesn't know, 

this poetry, this

honesty.

Mechanisms

The night is the city, the
city is the siren sound that
fills the dimly-lit streets, those
lights too soft for seeing, too hard

for sleeping.

Wind escapes, howl, even
as these hands slam shut on
open windows, but cold settles
and wind escapes and heat, it rises,
forming rings and foggy screens.

I might sleep tonight, I might
try, I might try and sleep tonight,
I might forget to sleep, I might forget
to try, I might forget to try and sleep for
once tonight, I might know, I might know
I will not sleep tonight.

I have tried so hard to be mad,
but it always feels like the wrong suit,
and I cannot lift its weight, and I cannot
make it fit, and so I don the lighter cloak,
and wish away the day.

Ad infinitum

how easily these
days spent in reverie
will turn to
decades of memory

such things are
best left ignored, as
some pages are
best left unturned, as
some dreams are
best left behind

And these, my hands,
which together form a dolphin,
or on their own, become
a crow, beneath a
red-hot sun, or
a line that
traces

back to its source,
as all things do

discovering jazz

the saxophone sang the sweetest tango while
the keyboard wept melodic tears and
the guitar plucked longingly at the air.

discovering jazz is, I imagine,
like making love for the first time,
after knowing only sex.

Words which speak louder

listen not
to the words, they
are only symbols, collecting
dust and soot, these words enter
and then they are gone, so easily lost
against the thumping pavement, these
eyes which squint but do not discern, these
truths left unfelt by calloused hands.

listen instead
to the thoughts, which
lie stooped by every doorstep,
wearing jackets that no longer fit,
their grounded hats turn up to face the sky,
listen to their
mumbo-jumbo, their crazy, their
talking selves, listen carefully to their
cracked lips, their smoke-stained shadows.

do not assume
that thoughts need food,
or homes, or even crumpled dollar signs,
do not offer
what cannot be received,
or given, or even promised in confidence,
remember
how sight deceives,
how truth often comes,
in lies dressed as thieves,
remember
that you are man, 
alone with your fellow thoughts,
that peace is singular, never plural,
that murals are many single scenes,
that memory fades until only
shared hands and 
regrets are
left.

I don't think you can know

I don't think you can know.

As I roamed countless empty beaches, when
I still did such things, the sun would 
set on the other side of
the island, so I
never saw it setting, only saw
the dim fade of light,
as night came, I
made myself
a promise,
that I wouldn't believe in sunsets anymore,
not the ones I couldn't see, even
if there was reason
to believe.

There are games we never played as children, they
are the disguises we learn to wear, we add layers
with each heartbreak, this coat of distrust, 
this cap of shattered confidence, these
pants that hang low with grief, these
shirts that never fit, too many 
buttons of betrayal.

These games we play like shields of war, they
serve no other purpose than to hide our
shame, our tragedy, our brokenness,
we once wore hearts on sleeves,
but now we lock them and throw out the keys,
we once dreamed of being heroes, 
now we'd rather be knights 
in shattered armor.

I have tried to be honest, but
even I cannot say how some words mean
more than what any dictionary can ever explain.

And the question of love remains on our lips,
And they remain dry from lack of use,
And the question you asked I cannot answer.

So I do not know, but I do feel it.

And I, too, am scared.

I remember
when I was younger, 
while visiting the beach, 
the tide rises and my toes
inch closer, I want to enter
that great torrid sea, but there is
a moment of hesitation, like fear, like
realization, because I never know if I should
jump over the waves, or dive beneath 
them, I can't rush in, 
my heart heavy, but I 
enter the waves, 
and sometimes the water burns
my throat, but sometimes
I open my eyes 
and see the
setting 
sun.

Simple lives in simple times

His voice was like whiskey, coarse and to the point. 

Hers was a reflection, like a wading pool, like an empty room.

Longing

There is

a breeze, past

the empty seat next

to me, this park bench

shadow, reaching out over

the harbor, there is

a breeze and

it carries

past the hill,

over the water, no

waves, but

the sprinkle of a crest,

a thousand crests, 

rippling, the

sun, which must 

set, it lingers,

not yet.

My throat

is dry, can barely 

breathe, the breeze 

fills, with its swell,

I rise,  still

not able to say 

what needs 

(to be).

There are

sailboats, the

breeze fills them, they

could travel

a thousand miles,

they could

carry a man, like

me, to the

place where 

I long to 

be.

Suspension

It must be a terrible thing,
to be the air,
never seen,
ever there,
unable to make
a sound,
always breathed in,
never breathed out,
carrying the world
in such small
space.

Arrogance

at the bookstore, the superstore

in Baltimore, on the bayfront that

used to be the power plant, waxing

brass into a Hard Rock Cafe, 

where the coffee shop sells

tea, but offers no outlets, 

there's a woman, she

asks where the

SparkNotes 

are.

at the bookstore, the 

power plant turned

brass, where history, 

where passion, where 

the musings  of ghost

writers past and 

present soak 

into the very walls,

she asks where the

SparkNotes

are.

you have already made

half the battle, half

the fight, you are

here, at the store,

why pay $4 for 

summaries, 

why not $5 for

masteries?

this temple to literature, spoiled,

this ivory tower wrought from

the mold only age can bring, 

where is your sympathy,

where your passion?

It seems like theft.

My own hands rise,

before my eyes, guilty

they remind me of

only moments before, 

when I traced  my way through 

the  bookshelves, in bookstores I 

have no qualms, I touch every passing 

book, I smell them, their newness, 

listen to their crinkling backs, as I 

open them for the first time, 

then put them back.

My guilty hands ask

if they too should be cut off, if

it were such a sin when they rubbed

through Robert Frost, lingering on 

the white page, before taking the whole

collection of Glück, seventy years in the making,

and leafed through it in 15 minutes, sucking

inspiration greedily, randomly,

before putting it back on the shelf, 

dirty fingerprints having

taken their fill.

Or this morning,

waking up at seven, seeing

the sun with its rays filtered by 

downtown streets, the early morning

heat, reborn in steam, risen from potholes,

the top of Federal Hill, looking over the city

so close, so far, 

seeing all that could be dreamed, the

people in their workaday suits and

jogging shorts, the kids doing  

wheelies on the pier, the 

pigeons grabbing at

any bite, all things

received freely, 

without

cost.

An incomplete first impression

Baltimore, you are a Catholic city,
when will your blood be turned into wine?
there are bullet marks next to your chalk drawings,
when will your kids stop fearing the dark?
there aren't enough night lights in the world to hide
the ringing of gunshots in their ears.
when will your playgrounds stop sounding like graveyards,
how many families  moved away today,
how many children not at school, today,
how many fathers, lost,
how many mothers, lost,
how many sirens did you hear, today?

Your Old Town Mall left vacant
its cobblestones filled with cigarettes,
Your Fells Point facade,
all pirates and streetcars and tourists and sex,
Your Baltimore Sun,
its prison windows say, "Light for All."

I can't see through your stained-glass churches,
I can't buy a candy bar without your bullet-proof corner shops,
I can't sleep, it's so dark, and
I can't walk at night, I have to take a taxi
to go two blocks.

I overheard your conversation, it
was near Orleans Street, you were a black man
hanging off a brick wall, you were laughing as you said,
"But the next day,  that motherfucka
was dead as a doorknob. Someone popped hi--"

Oh my god, I'm living in downtown Baltimore. 

There are Poets hanging from high shool rafters,
the joggers afraid of their own shadows, if
they wear headphones they gonna get
mugged, I leave work and friends
tell me, "Don't get jumped,"
life and death separated
by a single block.

I'm dreaming of an open parking spot,
one where you can park any day of the week,
and you don't have to leave on Monday or Tuesday,
there won't be any street cleaning on Wednesday,
there won't be a traffic ticket on Thursday and Friday,
maybe I can finally sleep in on Saturday, without
worrying if I'll be towed by Sunday.

I'm dreaming of a city without stoops,
without boarded-up tenements, without
blinds that are always closed, where people
look each other in eyes, where I'm not
reminded constantly of my hidden racism, 
where I can roam Patterson Park,
at night, naked of fear and prejudice, 
wearing only my wonder, 
and dip my feet into the waterfront and 
watch the sun rise over
a sailor's sky.