only the men know what i mean

only women bleed

thirty one men        are currently co-habitating        a corner of a room         marked  “poets”

they smile for each other             leaning against the walls     discussing their “works”      cool hats tipped just so   smoking their ultra-cool foreign cigarettes      beedies   and players           while cracking open     dark sweaty brews      to hang onto    fiddling with the labels    they wrap mouths around bottle tops   wipe the excess from their top lips       casting the occasional       snarl        and sideways glance to the other side of the room      assessing four female body shapes and sizes      while imagining painted lips      wrapped around them        picturing    what and who  might be worthy    to suck them off     fantasize of who might      end up gracing their arms       or laying     splayed across  their filthy sheets         later        and only for a night

they speak  in low voices       of their heroes    laugh uncomfortably at funny lines intended     to hit their marks        just so         they bounce their knowledge of old content and context                around the room      it shoots off them and each other          like a tight, heavy basketball      they run court end to court end      they retrieve only the most impressive      shots from their library of what’s hip and    cool     it gathers and falls  from  them     like the stench of hard thick    ego hail   landing on their trendy shoes     as they begin to quote        their favorite chapbooks   their dicks fly out of their pants    sweaty brews replaced by sweaty members     and one by one        they grab each other    smiling        stroke by stroke

four women        currently cohabitating         in the opposite corner   of a room called “poets” 

 they gather together      uncomfortably at first     wondering why they are here    marveling at the hesitant invitations they received     to be here in the first place      they observe    watching the show    finally engaging with kindred spirit      one   recalls and remembers    reading of the days of      the holy barbarians       when the women       cooked and cleaned    worked at dives and cafes   brought home the paychecks     the wine       the food    to cheap oceanfront   one-room apartments for their artist men  and their friends    spread their legs    while cool jazz       in the abstract   was the background noise   for the true artists    the painters   the writers    the poet men of the day        whose art only truly mattered

as they watch the show      around the room     one cracks a smile        they’ve talked of home     of struggles with words   a secret love of opiates  to kill reality’s pains   the real of their relationship to the muse    of buried journals   of why they choose to do what they do    of jobs and kids     of the impossibilities of readings at certain venues     and of keeping their words alive amid the fray   their female emotions are layed out    raw and real    their intelligence and thoughtful conversation    seems from the gut     from the heart    and turns   silent when the show on     the other side of this poet’s corner       begins

their eyes meet      they smile      chuckle at the absurdity    they cover mouths      like geisha    watch the merriment and glee     build in each other’s eyes       chuckle becomes     guffaw     guffaw turns to    deep throated giggles         out of control      that laughter that seeps up from gut        uncontrollable     until tears        fall        and they are holding on       to keep each other   upright      laughter flows from their eyes of shared vision      they can’t stop!     nor can they believe the repeat performance    it happens every time!

thirty one men      cast mean-spirited glances       to the hysteria      across the room     wordless for a change          they quietly release each other     zip up open fly after open fly       and resume their serious dialogue of         importance    between them        they now cast       sideways glances    heavy with disdain    in the  direction   of the four      who laugh and laugh and laugh

   31/4    if  the women will keep talking   truth to each other      the ever-so-odd disproportionate      odds    between  the men   and the women    will always be in our            female favor  and we         will keep laughing at the absurdity     as it fills the rooms

About lindalou5150

as exercise or exorcism, i write...for the eyes of others, for my eyes and heart only, for the love and the rage, i write...to release the gamut of emotion...to tell the truth and say what's often thought but not written...
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