fears of men

The fears of men

are as trivial as

children, picking children in gym,

they never change

they just get bigger.

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This guy at the bar ain’t half bad!

This guy at the bar the other night

tells me my poetry aren’t poems

but rather songs

as he takes my phone

and begins singing them to himself.

These are great man, he says

really good stuff here,

as he sings, flipping back his hair.

And I don’t stop him, because why

would I stop someone

who’s turned my pain into pleasure

when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.

Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!

an open coffin.

There will always be poverty

and powerless men, who feel nothing

towards people just trying to exist.

Believe it or not it was a club to join,

Till 1955,

all it took, was a .45 colt, a river, a fan.

But it (is) not that world anymore, is it?

I want to say no, but Jackson’s slaying of elderly men?

Born of the same bullet that lay Evers dead.

It’s enough to make you want to blind your eyes, it’s enough to know better than to blind your soul.

So as there will always be poverty and powerless men,

there must never be closed,

an open coffin.

old friend

I look at you

like an old friend

someone I haven’t talked to in a while

and with enough time together

you find it odd

how good it feels

to speak again, and again

in the morning and at night

I’m the lull of mid afternoon

taking pieces of my certainty that aren’t yours to have

leading me to remember, why

we stopped speaking

in the first place.

Though you know I’ll listen when you call.

I couldn’t be that cruel.

heroine and Burroughs

Watch your soul.

I’d say tongue but I don’t harbor
the arrogance I once spewed.

Give me a break, like I dealt it
in cards, knowing you’d take the Ace.

I am only human, I have no other excuse.

I was scared of losing, most of all I was terrified that I could choose.

Does it feel good to see through me
like spotted glass, knowing your
windows are clean?

And why do I bother to even ask? It’s not you who hold the answer, I can see, it’s I who has stood
idle, waiting to turn the key.

So if you’re looking through the peephole, please don’t make a sound.

I can see your shadow quiver, mine quivers there too.

But I can’t turn that key with a lock full of gum.

Another way out then, ah, hum — there’s a pauper selling candy, eating pizza on 68th next to Sole — so I’m pretty sure we’ll meet again, like heroine and Burroughs.

your dying

Did you burn yourself out

like a flame wick under wax?

Or were you just here for the holiday?

Is that why you smelled vanilla?

I don’t have a match that’s long enough

to strike you from this far,

with another year upon us.

I just kind of smelled your dying.