Originally posted 2/10/2012.

A whisky master says,
“I suck the tongue of truth
from the pit of every glass.”
A wine master says,
“This sweetness burning within
pushes my eye toward Heaven.”
A pothead prays
in riddles,
grinning at the answers.

Whatever we do to stone ourselves
revives within us the kick
we last used in the womb.

We fight toward
what’s out there,
though we have never seen it.

We reach for it.  We may not be
steady, we may not be
completely sane.

We may not even be right

when we clamor that it is
all we need — but still 

we go for it, kicking free
of our bindings, punching
toward rebirth.

Originally posted 9/28/2013.

A man I know
calls his preferred
prospective partners
“chicklettes.”
Because they’re young,
young and sweet,
he says.
Because of their fragile shells,
he says.
Because he spits them out
when the flavor’s gone,
he says.

This other man I know
has jokes up the wazoo
about women, about
“how they are.”
Because that’s just
letting off steam,
he says.
Because of the need for a break
in the battle between us,
he says.
Because it’s better than shooting them,
he says, 
and laughs.

This other man I know
likes to stick his elbow into me
whenever he pretends he’s down
for women where we work.
Because they think I mean it,
he says.
Because as men we know the score,
he says.
Because, anyway, where were we before they talked?
he says.

Other men I know lose track
of bedmate headcount.
Other men keep track,
notch something to brag about.

Other men I know have heard about “no”
but they say it’s just a lock to be picked apart.
Other men don’t care much for locks,
bust down the door, swear they heard a cry
for help in there.

I know many other men who I’d have sworn
are none of these,
but too often I learn of one or more who are
not the men I thought they were
and now when I say

this other man I know
or
these other men I know

I stop and wonder 
if other men are in fact knowable,
why I seem to know so many of these other men,
and why those other men 
seem so comfortable with me.