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
