Beginning Middle Man — Poems

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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Drinks

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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For my dad

"Grease"

I get practicality from him,
and height.
I can stay up until 2am,
get up at 6, and push through the day.
Smart friends call this “resilience”;
I just call it a day.
Up or down, it’s still got to be lived.
Might as well do it awake.

I can’t fix cars like him, and I don’t
have grease under my fingernails
and my hands are not rough like his.
But I don’t trust mechanics with
clean, soft hands, and at least I don’t
drive around ignoring strange noises.
Both are him,
and I’ve never said that before.

There is not one person on this planet
confused about the way he feels –
personally or about life.
He likes what he likes and who,
doesn’t have much time for niceties.
He is himself, and when he leaves
he’s going to take nothing but himself,
and he’ll be just fine with that.

I don’t know where I got the letters;
he doesn’t trust books, or writing.
But it seems, as long as I have them all,
I might as well do something useful.

Here:  he did his best by me.
I guess that’s all I need to say.