On All Fours, #101

Let’s assume that perhaps,
I am indeed sexist,
the worst kind of male
chauvinist, prejudice,
closeted bigot who
compensates for lessons
too well imprinted, by
gravitating around strong,
round, bold, brash women,
a moon to their planets.

Let’s assume my poems,
with all their blemishes,
scar tissue and pock marks,
their perfect reflection
of my view and mindset
come to life from this womb,
one where women are seen
not through the lens evolved
of mind, perfectly mute
and political, but
through the passive filter
that screams out “Curvaceous.
Busty. Vulnerable.”

What then? Should the poems
too be mute, another
mask of carved suggestion,
but living never up
to their potential. Or
should they scream, disregard
the publicists, critics,
uber-evolved homo-
sapien instructors
who warn nothing much good
comes of art that demeans
people. And haven’t we
lived through those old dark times?
And how far have we come?

What I would like to say
is that the problem is
not with the poems, but
with my head, not with words
on the page, but with words
that worm that way around
my brain. I was looking
into her forest green
eyes and imagining
swinging from tree to tree,
her nude form tucked beneath
my arms, and on a patch
of ground in the sunlight
making out, making love,
scratching her graven form
deep into the soft bark
of a tree, and later
letting her lounge about
the beach while I collect
coconuts and shells,
hides of beasts to protect
and warm her nude body.

I wish to be of service.
To bow down and honor
the feminine mystique,
the eternal goddess,
the true power, woman,
in my life. And with her,
words, those small syllables
like nipples I know can
arouse me, and I can
them. Nipples that sustain
inside me a longing
to pleasure and to pray.

And once a day, when all
thought slips from inside me,
I could bury my fears
and inadequacies
on her pages, compose
myself by scent and grunt,
instinct of word calling,
the old art of naming
beasts left roaming around
inside me, a jungle
allowed to grow wild,
a forest of healing.

Let’s assume that perhaps,
the intellectuals
are correct, and my kind
should be cordoned off, kept
silent, that we’re best
to be mute and be pretend,
roam amongst modern man
wearing their cloths, speaking
their tongue, championing
their causes at cocktail
parties, not listening
to the other voices
grunting. Well then, my friend,
I shall speak in perfect
clipped melodies, meters,
be honored and humbled
while something else growls.
I shall beat it till it dies.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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