Monday, March 22, 2010

Male Sadness


Sometimes a bruising maleness comes
and radiates its rutting atavistic hums at me,
in me, through me, from me so that I have

no doubt that I am capable of murder –
among varieties of other dark supposed
unspeakabilities; in fact, would wield them,

yield to their morbidities with no more
thought than I’d have brought to having
fought whatever arrogance of other flesh

had the audacity to think it had the right to be,
instead of me, the ruling thing: I’d be and stay
the king: erect a palace to my phallus: direct

the rest of you to kneel. Sometimes a reeling
maleness wants to pump me up to such
a madness that I’d wreck the world and find

the sadness: the key, of course, to men.
When I had found that out, if anything
were left, I guess I’d just begin again.




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