In old tales, men entered the forest alone, cut their own path through darkness. No guide but belief. No ancestry but thought, a word -- walk -- as thorns became home and light, theirs.
Tag: poetry
from Beginning Middle Man
“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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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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“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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“Browsing”
Library of Memory, finger on the spines that hold together me. Oh, I do not like this book! (Though I’ve read it a thousand times.) I was too young to understand. How was I to know? (I knew.) One night sags the shelf that ought to be in the Restricted Section (like the old days, when you had to ask for the books with drawings). These spines are warped. Horrible! I move on. My, this one is beautiful. Just look at its golden cover: “Full of greeting cards and fairy tales.” Here, I learn right from wrong and begin to build My Best Self. Things work out in this book (just like a Hollywood movie). Grandma really likes it. I really should read it someday. But they said I could take out only one. Maybe this one? Bright and Sunny Days? And there are other rooms, futures I’ve never visited, a place for faith. Philosophy. I really should… as I bow my head, reach for Mistakes and turn to you.
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“Parking”
“You should call security.
These homeless people.”
But there was something else,
some bit of sadness —
“...always think it’s tragic
when I’m the one paying rent...”
— behind still-hopeful eyes,
as a silly heart-shaped balloon
floated forward, started to sag.
“in our building? Was he good looking?”
What?
His eyes shut mine
against the breach.
So much to give
as you focus parts,
abs and arms alone,
always.
But those weighted lips,
like waves,
carried dreams
until they reached my shore..
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Faustus Possessed
He didn’t give me his name. Just a question: “Are you sure?” And as I quivered, arched a vibrating spine, thought “no contract would be legal now, you have to be sane, prostate unfluttered, bliss-less” — You don’t even know who he is! (Every safe voice.) I do. He is Unseen. Unbodied mechanic. Quantum god or prisoner, jinni or egrḗgoroi angel-demon foreign-world alien — because, really — Oh, my god! “Yes!”
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Prayer
I asked three times
for this affliction to be taken from me.
“But it’s your brain,” God said.
Fuck! I guess I need that.
“Lorca”
Hey, bro!
I did her!
With sunglasses on!
— Memorial Acclamation
Go do it, then,
whatever it is that you do —
sex someone, buy that ring —
film it, even, make
a record of your elementary courage
and then social your accomplishment
to your kind.
After all, you have the keys —
(Secret gesture.
Secret gesture.
Secret gesture!)
— and I should want to be
just
like
you.
But,
no.
If you’re going to do it, hijo,
choose a field where
you will get caught
and shot
and then I’ll know you’re real.
Let your body stand erect
as rifles are raised by priests and soldiers;
stand before their righteous hate, alone,
knowing you die for your desire.
Then I’ll follow.
In your childlike voice:
“It was just a little fun!”
“Why do you have to be so serious?”
Mi pequeñito, you have a thousand ways
to explain your survival —
as his blood sings from Spain,
intones a truth known only to me:
Divinity is a dead body,
sinking and stinking,
unliked and unfriended,
shot by justice,
abhorred by Church,
buried nowhere but my heart.
Cristo amó.
Cristo murió.
Cristo murió.
Located here.
Sway
The ebb and force of sway, waves of time pull forward, push back; a swell of belted Romans, America's blue-suited crash. Which is why it's important to build a boat for my heart.
Greg Beckman 