w.m.l.l. 8

 sitting at the end of my bed
            pale blue comforter pulled back    
                                                            kicked to the corner of the bed

he is in his boxers  

he picks up the guitar
(it has never felt
fingers this heavy before)

 sunlight has bleached this moment in
         
       
                early morning    the blinds are up



i watch his back, a sailing ship      his big knotched spine

a mast above


                                       his little button

perched 

on the rolled edge of the mattress 

bundled in its little blueberry cloth.

new friend, new inspiration

one man's trash is another woman's art

what men look like research

This video is not my story. But we are both wanting to be closer to the entity of the masculine, we are both trying to understand what being a man is, how to relate to them. This video is not my poetry. But it is poetry. This video is not my struggle. But it is something i cannot look away from.

http://www.giveforward.com/supportkendonfisherbypayingitforward

w.m.l.l. 7

quiet was not assaulted

it was alive & sung praises      hands         lit altars.

took his shirt off            so did I          we wanted to be in our bodies—

the wind        never knew a man

who could look into my vulnerability and stand still

the next day i watched him reading in the sunny nook of our house

brown pant legs rolled out like  coast

what men look like 6

faded       square photo

            my age

unposed turned around

              say hello to camera

shirtless by campfire

                                      eyes are two

brand new cars

hair swept over by a hand

(instead of comb)

a body I could have had, if I were a man

he is      smiling          

to see a man smile  with his ancient heart

my poem in my pocket

today is national poem in your pocket day.

this is the one i always want to carry in mine. my first love...

It's a joy to be subtracted from the world.


It's a joy to be subtracted from the world. Holding my son's naked body against my own, all I feel is what he is. I cannot feel my own skin. I cannot feel myself touching him, but I can recognize his hair, the heft of his body, his warmth, his weight. I cannot measure my own being, my subtle boundaries, but I know my son's arms, the drape of his legs, smooth and warm in a shape I can measure. I have become such a fine thing, the resting-place for a body I can know.














From "Pleasure" Copyright 2006 by Gary Young. Published by Heyday Books

every poem i write is a prayer

http://www.newcriterion.com/m/articles.cfm/-Power-of-some-sort-or-other--on-poems-and-prayers-7319#.T5joxEl0t7c.mailto

dangles

this body is young
this body is still forming
this body has cells that have soft edges
this body still has a sense of humor

photography is amazing

http://www.vice.com/picture-perfect/patrick-brown

see my work in the flesh

http://giganticsequins.com/2012/04/18/announcement-our-3-2-contributors/

what men look like 5

shoulders like a train
shoulders green
turtle eyes
a mouth that could sink countries
what man has a mouth like that?
what man can stand in the door and make it look open?

the sprinklers are on in suburbia

above neighborhood houses
the mourning doves are hooing their curdled lament

the street is painted with charcoal smoke and skillet
as the children are laughing with wet grass feet

car doors are slamming shut
as screen doors are rocketing open

the avenues have pulled in their locomotive tides
they are beginning to empty

a cat watches the sun go down from her porch
below her the lawn is even-green

prison break

loose spines

                 
                       in flight



storm of skin





the thousand paws and spit



*

what men look like 3 & 4

such a beautiful body

torso     olive river that bends aimless

ever changing

hands are long twigs tied to chicken wing

feet like two trouts

falls asleep twisted up on the couch

his shirt up to his rib

••

Sore

mealy face

pyramid hands

shirt that’s too old

shows the tits

urine eyes

urine teeth shaped like an ape's

short & wide for mashing

cloudy            hanging in between

puke soaked jeans

what men look like 1 & 2

big beautiful cubed head 


fourth grade ears stick out like              dried fruit
gap in his front teeth was 


just enough     front fangs baring all their muscle  


first time I could feel my own anatomy working like looking inside a clock
first time I remember sensing my own body as if I was holding myself in my hand










••

he is in his field manager uniform

tall dumb college boy look  mouth always open

he is 26 and i am 12

dad holds his neck up to the roof of his toll booth

a climate between our hands

for Jenelle

a climate
between our hands

a shore
a fog

that creams between
our palms

breath is transferred
from one to another

oxygen buoyed from
you to me



we are sharing its boat



a pulse
cold and warm

the temperature
of the coast

a humidity
only known

where water rests
where water moves

our two hands need
each other to breathe

Day End

Warm Hands Easy Mind Kitchen

lemons are primitive
unconcerned
are bold
the way they live together, those suns