“Un-washed”
I don’t smell like soap. I smell like whore steam motel carpet beer, not imported, domestic, and stand a man to watch you walk in.
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Tag: poems
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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“Conversation”
That ladybug sits on that green leaf before its silken buzzy wings remind me I was somewhere too. — “What were you saying?”
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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.
“Jump”
He hovers over Jung’s deep pond, seeking a measurement: How deep does this go? Are there sexy monsters? From a coy-formed mouth (new, just for him), the water speaks: “Come in and find out.”
Greg Beckman 