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.