Boy, oh boy
Will boys be boys
And oh boy, that’s gross to say,

I at least get that,
I mean I try to but here’s to trying

Kind of like trying to speak for women
Or anyone that isn’t you,
you should just not do that…

There’s a difference in defense for the good of all
And then, there’s what we were talking about 50 ******* years ago

Oh, excuse me 30 ******* years ago,
Last ******* year…
2 ******* days ago…
OK RIGHT THE **** NOW…

But I really want to go back to 69
Oh, The Summer of love…
Or the summer of forcing a woman to go to court over the ability to receive an abortion only to be decided by a group of old men if she has any rights over her body to receive a safe medical procedure, all while  the media doing no one any favors guiding a blind division nationally between people and God fearing busy bodies, calling her names and questioning her character as a responsible person, in a not very god-fearing tone, all while forcing Ms. McCorvey again, to get burned more for prolonging an unwanted pregnancy due to waiting on a decision that is determined in court by that aforementioned group of men, which is like the sportsman’s equivalent of just killing the clock to win a game but it isn’t a ******* game it’s a woman’s body, which clearly they didn’t care anything about just as long as they get that **** baby in the next 6 months or so, but as stated above it is indeed unwanted, so really who is going to take care of the ******* baby because we know how much people just love adopting ******* children?
Let’s ask 25 republicans!

But some people talk of 69 differently,

Some remember the Beatles.
Some recall Charles Manson.

Kind of like today
Some say we are putting god back in our government
And The rest of us in 1972 to 2019 are wondering who the **** invited god?
I never knew God and every white person’s, “one uncle” has the same opinion.
Amazing!
But Uncle Alabama shouldn’t speak for God.
Wait until he finds out she’s a woman.
That’d be a kick to the unregulated nuts we can just spew anywhere, like a natural ******* disaster.

That’s what the name of this ******* poem should be,
but it’s not.

Sincere, *******.
That’s what I call this one,
That’s what I call the last 2 and half years too.
And this poem.

And telling women what to do with their bodies.

Some people would think differently.
But I don’t think some people think.

Usually I embrace the lack of sound,
but lately it’s been peeling the paint off the walls.
The chips scatter and collect on the ground,
in boredom I pick them up and roll them into *****.
I forget the last voice that touched my ear,
but there’s only one I truly seem to crave,
even when telling me things I don’t want to hear
I find it impossible for me not to cave.

I’ve been playing Spy vs Spy
with my reflection in the mirror.
The black and white catches my eye
but the mix to grey is growing nearer.
There’s something else I want to try,
as the difference between good and bad is getting clearer.
I remember everyone else but forgot I,
I’m not too sure if I should fear her.
So what side are you on?
Are you here or are you gone?

Normally I love the pitch black dark
but tonight it’s drowning me in an abyss.
The structure and outlines that once were stark
are now details even the sharpest eye could miss.
I forget the last person to grace my sight,
there’s only one I wish to be standing in place,
her glow would banish the darkness of night,
whether she was caressing or slapping my face.

I’ve been playing Spy vs Spy
with my opposing thoughts and views,
and lately I’ve just been getting by
by drinking raindrops and morning dews.
A goal too far or maybe too high,
but that’s hardly any breaking news.
So what side are you on?
Are you hand written or hand drawn?

You’re holding me under water, watching me drown so slow,
pulling me up for air and saying “don’t breathe, just blow.”
You’re holding me under water,
watching me drown so slow,
then pulling me up for air begging
“please, oh please, don’t go.”

I’ve been playing Spy vs Spy
with my conflicting feelings and limited choices,
no right path for me so the left I defy,
in the distance I may just hear voices.
It’s comedic how I accept a lie,
and I’m sure she still rejoices.
So what side are you on?
Are you twilight or are you dawn?

When I want to be seen
I want the world to turn it’s head and admire me all at once,
Bask in my glow and worship every inch of me.
I am sculpted from marble and ivory,
Every inch of my skin is precious
I shine in the sunlight like church windows on sunday.

When I want to be invisible every glance feels like a knife in my back,
eyes like daggers
ordinary bystanders morph into hallway critics
Clipboards out pens at the ready
A special page to circle my flaws
highlight my insecurities
underline my fears
I am all at once vulnerable in a place where vulnerability is a very dangerous thing to be.

~for Wendy ~

with my almost two years old poetry advisor,
who loves her Sunday rituals, an extra sabbath,
of waffles and Shrek, kid’s gym and artistic endeavors,
cozying up with Nana and siblings in a big old bed,
snacking and chewing on the good silk sheets

as always, she and and I go off to have an intellectual conversation,
letting the older ones to do kid stuff, while we converse and debate
topics of nature vs. nurture, the weather vs. climate change,
and the future of everything, unbeknownst to everyone else

which is greater, love or honor, she inquires,
sensing my thoughts are preoccupied with matters of honor...
as she strokes my itchy, scratchy day old face,
insuring her having my full attention, while
taking advantage of my loving weakness

grandpa:
honor over everything my opening gambit,
while she coyly harrumphs in response,
one can love without reason for such are
our natural souls programmed,
but honor needs concentration and contemplation,
and if done right,
then love will surely follow!

She-Woman:
ah ha! once again you sidle up to nurture,
cause love is too inexplicable,
old man, old man, did I not love you before
any season of reason crossed my brow,
and my vocabulary consisted of just
more, no, toy and hungry

what did I know of Aristotle, logic, codes of conduct,
the definition of honor yet abstract,
while love is nature’s illogical construct,
coming first without restrictions,
while honor is malleable and
property of the eye of the beholder

grandpa:
wise beyond your tears, you are, and unquestionably correct,
but while coming first, love cannot last,
until cover-coated with honor,
for honor gives us the because, and locks down the why,
honor gives the insight, the rationale, the rules of how to say
yes and no, when love is tendered and an R.S.V.P. is requested

She-Woman:
absent experience, for now will concede,
but be warned this is not over,
fo you have not brought me a definition of what truly honor be

grandpa:
honor is the housing of love, and though you granted me your favor,
comes the day that you will demand proofs that
what was unearthed & unearned
is now earned, a course in credit, a baccalaureate in life’s lanes,
when to heed them, when to crossover, when to say I do, I do,
no to someone else alone, and yes to your honorable self

She-Woman:
adult double speak, I suspect, and you will rue the day
when forced to concede, with a wrenched
‘child, I do not know,’
meanwhile change my diaper
after I karate chop your knee

Grandpa:
yes child, but know,  two of your requests/notifications are
honorable acts and/know real love can be ONLY be exchanged
tween honorable humans

Mist is in the air
seeping through my pores;
I look for you,
bathed in the cold.

Time and time again,
I hear eerie tones.
like the song of cicadas,
under Shumard oak.

Debated where you were
mystery unsolved.
The story of old,
Me vs. my own mind.

Afternoon fades off
still, debated unsolved.
to the song of cicadas,
to face each other once more.