poetry, Uncategorized

bees

my dad never runs from bees
but I run from bees
does that mean I am not a man?

bees are small and evil little yellow and black things
that cause you pain
but everyone still wants to save them

I want to kill them all
but if we kill them all we all also
die
this is called nature
it sucks
it is an absurdist joke in bad taste

I was outside of a wedding when it happened
the bee
I ran from it
an old woman watched me
and I could see in her eyes she thought

“that’s not a man”

and I thought
bees are dumb
this is dumb
everything is dumb

why aren’t you running from the bee
you crazy old bitch

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prosetry

tabernacled in flesh

It’s the keeping in that makes my heart palpitate because it’s not telling the truth and then I’m in a hospital bed being nothing but honest about the white in my beard. Football (or fútbol) or baseball (or fútbol). Boxers or briefs. Scotch or whiskey (or wine or beer). Blondes or brunettes or both or whatever. It’s this or that, to be a man, and sometimes life or death—but you saw that coming.

Poets are soft i.e. effeminate and I’ve been told I have both but definitions are fluid and you wouldn’t know it to look at me. All that matters is right now, he said, stoically, warm with stern tradition, and I’m constantly surprised to be here, tormented at times by possible selves and seeking an appropriate rendering of manhood to stick to.

Today I am the type who folds over the corners of too many pages of too many books, parturient with the power of what words have done to me and holding fast to the strange singular spirit within.

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