Poems, thoughts, and stories.
Beginning Middle Man. Its poetry is surprisingly straightforward, honest and strong, adult without apology. All gay-eros, all the time, a way of remaining true to what I’ve known since I was 17: if we’re not talking about sex, then we’re not talking about ourselves.
These poems are like most men I know and love, rough around the edges and awkward in the extreme. But still beautiful.
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How do I sift history into sound
cut pain into letters
spell you with words
that cleave night from day
right from wrong
lie from truth?
No.
Awe floats —
leaf in windless landscape
breathless birdsong
your heat —
and so I burn my noisy nets,
kiss my love,
praise
silent hands.
More here.
I studied the bar for possible moods — what was the one I felt yesterday, right after the Manhattan? Was that CareFreeMelancholy? or CitySad mixed with WindSweptLoneliness? WoeIsMe? No. Wait. I sent that first one back, got a TallBud and rode AwesomeConvo and his wingman, BroLove into the land of FuckAin’tItSolid! Or was that the AMF?
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That ladybug sits on that green leaf before its silken buzzy wings remind me I was somewhere too. — “What were you saying?”
There’s more! Here.
Greg Beckman 