The mind of a man with a bad woman

I used to see the world as stage,
personalities as layers thick with rouge,
aesthetic pleasing or designed to disgust
story arcs that hold the lines that snake
from the mouths of predators into victim ears:
venom are the words that paralyze a living life.

I’ve seen the presentation:
hands reach out in kindness and fade away
as the scene ends, and the actor forgets
his place in this temporary theater:
fear of speaking out,
is fear of speaking out of line.
“I cannot touch her in that way”,
barefoot behind the fence he remains,
green grass sharpened like knives.
His feet bleed and he blinks,
watching her unwounded toes
take her to the other side
far away from his boredom.

Admire what is courageous in you,
for then you can be one of the ad-libbers,
who sing songs only from their hearts,
for better or worse until death rips apart:
marriage isn’t anything but courage
until it isn’t courage any longer,
and then it isn’t marriage any longer.

I have spoken with the minds of men,
where the heart is conception and idea,
or something to hold onto,
when the hot sauce hurts,
or when mother gives the wicked eye.
To make the ocean into punishment,
into void – that is the mind of a man
who stays with a bad woman,
one who fears the eternal sea.

What man spends life being a good boy?
What man spends life trying not to be good?
Watch the birds who don’t plan vacations
or destinations or contrivances,
but fly as the trees wave in the distance,
goodbye mommy, goodbye,
and the airs conspire to swirl the storms,
by the will of some ethereal heart
just to be present to the beautiful



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