Clumsy Gazelle Poem
10/??/2015

Dear Dad,

The last time we spoke, was spent walking down the sidewalk together in some metropolitan area.  There was a tunnel up above, I guess we were in what you would call an underpass and a giant graffiti'd dumpster was awaiting our passage.  You pulled on my arm with strong resolve and guided me into the street, as if the cars would dissolve in front of us as we inched farther away with our feet.  I felt like a modern day Moses, it was magical.  Once we reached the other side of the Chevrolet sea, you pointed out to me that our sudden death match with the traffic was a tactical maneuver.  There was a gang operation being run no sooner than just beyond the trash bin... I woke up from that dream and immediately knew what could have happened.

I took a trip to Chicago this summer, the first of its kind.  I felt like you were watching over me, keeping me safe the entire time.

I can't recall too many words you've said to me, but I have quite a few for you.  Like to start, here's two.  I'm gay.  I wonder all the time, if maybe you already knew.  You always called me by the nickname Cool.  You told my mom that when I grow up I would be a ******* and a big drinker too.  You got one-and-a-half of those right.  

I inherited your hair and your goofy smile too.  Neither of those are all that great, but I guess they'll have to do.  I've heard the story from your poker pals about the time you won at pool.  You got up on the table and in your most graceful pose and poise, the pool stick struck, and as the 8 ball sunk, gravity grabbed and you fell.  Once you stood up, you addressed the **** up and said, "Like a gazelle."    

I've made my own leaps too, but every gazelle has its gaffes.  I've fallen in front of friends but made it out of every situation's extremes. It seems that when gravity pulls me down, all I can do is laugh. I'm glad I got that from you - I'd rather be a 'clumsy gazelle' than a 'graceful giraffe.'

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013