Poem of the Unsoftened Man

Shuffling your feet, you stare at your hands.

Their callouses - their years their memory their pride.

This manicure, you’re told, will make you beautiful. Set things right. Clear the air between us.

“Don’t be handsome.” The voice rings. "You’re beautiful now. We’re all the same.

Can’t you see?”

‘Just a few tools’, you tell yourself.

A little scrub here. A strong rub there. You can do this. You’ve always risen to a challenge.

You picture the technician running her smug file under your nails. The dirt, the soil, the minerals, the labour all bleeding out. You look away. Your thoughts are wrong. So you’re told.

You were told to grow your nails so She could trim them nicely, make them "right”.

They are so long they make your stomach churn.

You stop looking at your hands. You stuff them in your pockets.

A woman walks up to the door of the salon. Your hands jump out. You can’t stop them. They’re on the handle. You see your nails. You check Her face. The door stays closed. Her fist wraps around its handle. She is gone. Your nails are not. You stare.

‘Who’s hands are those?’ You wonder as you see them in the reflection of the glass door. ‘What a fag.’ You think.

Who’s hands are those? As you stuff them in your pocket and feel lint crunch under their length. ‘Gross.’ You think.

The door floats shut silently, wafting obnoxious smells in your face. You wave your hand to dissipate them but you’re only taunting yourself. Those nails. Wagging at you like an air traffic controller, trying to bring you in for landing.

But the runway looks really, really small.

A bead of sweat on your temple. You don’t step out of the sun into the cool, controlled climate of the salon. You’re happy to sweat.

Another woman approaches. Your sweat has revived you. You open the door. She stares.

She looks at the flaking skin on your lips, chapped and ignored. She looks at the crow’s feet that burrow powerful ravines from the ocean of your eyes. She sees their darkness. You are unsoftened. Your smile gives you away. She glances, only briefly, at the caked mud on your boots, hoping you don’t track it inside. Hoping you don’t spread it into her world.

She stares. You think she must be staring at your nails. ‘I don’t blame you.’ You think.

Sighing, you carefully close the hydraulically controlled door. It doesn’t need your care. It has evolved.

You see your reflection in the closed glass door. You stare. What was she looking at? You can see only a man. Nothing else.

Another woman appears behind you.

You open the door.

She is offended.

She slaps your face.

You are shocked.

You want to slap her back.

The bead of sweat on your forehead falls onto your flannel shoulder and disappears.

No one saw it. Not even you.

You lift your nails to your teeth and bite. And bite. And bite.

-

By EL

No Man’s Hour

That uncertain reach

Terrified, electrified, hard.

The look in his eyes

Wanting to entrance through his enchantment

But he’s powerless, lost in lust.

Here I sit, still and curious.

Waiting. Wanting.

Helplessly in control.

Don’t stop looking. Don’t stop liking what you see.

Completely desperate in my power.

What a silly pair we make.

You. And me.

But there is no us.

Just a muddled puddle of hormones

Buzzing in the silence of

No man’s hour.

Sing a song about me

Desperate and sweet

Reflect the version of me

I want to see.

Adore, desire and worship me.

Don’t let on that it’s all just a ploy

Don’t think you’re alone in that, boy.

Don’t let on that it’s all just a ploy,

Keep me on the hook, boy.

Sing a song about me

Desperate and sweet

Reflect the version of me

I want to see.

Adore, desire and worship me.

Because you are my fantasy until this night is over

Because you are real until this night is done.

Morning is cruel and confusing

We’re a messy pair,

But there is no us,

Not even a muddle of hormones,

Just the buzzing silence of the sunlight,

Goofed memories of no man’s hour.

Sing a song about me

Desperate and sweet

Reflect the version of me

I want to see.

Adore, desire and worship me.

Because you are my fantasy until this night is over

Because you are real until this night is done.

…And in the morning, you’re gone.

- By EL

Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You

“And so it is.  Just like you said it would be.”  Damien Rice  

I’m thirty-eight and forty already has its hold on me.  I can feel gravity and wisdom taking hold.  I can feel a weight that makes me feel so slight, so delicate.  What is inside, layers of lead growing heavy. Built up over time, experience. Stepping out and trying.  

I’m plodding toward a point, and then it all changes.  I’m almost there.  Letting go, saying “hello”, getting to know.  

Hi.  I knew you’d come.  Not that long ago I was feeling so light weight, like anything could blow me asunder and, now, here you come.  Just seeing you on the horizon, my feet plant, my mind breathes, my shoulders know. Here you are.  You’re beautiful.  You look different, but I knew you would come.    

In your hand you carry a message and I’ve been trying to decipher it from here.  There are no heroes.  We’re all heroes and villains.  No matter what path you choose, there will be loss, suffering, doubt and pain.  There is no right answer.  The stories of winners are half-lies.  Moses set his people free…after being the instrument of death to thousands of first-born sons…like the enemy, Pharoah, before him.  The grandma, and the father, and the mother, and the son all loved deeply. The queen didn’t poison the king or kill the farm girl.  

There is a glory and a dignity in you.  Within you, is all of humanity.  How will I treat them?  What will I do with you?

“I can’t take my eyes off of you.” – Damien Rice

Hands and Pockets

So where does it leave us?
My lover.
With our hearts in our pockets
Or in our hands?

Hands that have held dreams.
Made of copper and wire
And tin wound tight.
Hands that have known curves
And sweat
Of furrowed brows
And lonely nights.
Hands that have danced.
And let go.
Hands that,
Holding an infant,
Have tumbled and fallen
But held firm.
Hands outstretched.
Hands that have known hearts
And love,
And long…
Long to be trusted.
And known.
Hands that will not be left empty.

Or.

Or place our hearts carefully down in pockets,
Deep and empty
And stale and dark,
Soft cotton wrapping in
Dusty, thick, heavy, warmth,
Unbreathable air busy with familiar lint,
Sealed in and bundled tight
Shutting out,
At least,
Time and light
And hurt.
And love.
Steel pockets
Heavy and sore
Aching to pulses of
Foggy windows with the lights turned out.
No courtesy lost,
No life given,
Just to preserve
And give out what we feel is deserved
And hold in the rest for our selves.

Who knows the eternal beat that rights the wrong,
Trains the frustrated heart,
And tames the runaway hurt?
Soothing the beast is sitting
In the folded up feather chair,
Licking our wounds
And choking on the down.
Instead, furious, let us
Fall delicately back on the bed of our hands,
Not looking.
But washing and
Carrying and rumbling the night
To mingle with lighted spirit.
In our hands,
Once and for all,
Even if it’s just for now,
Take them outstretched,
And spin through the quick sand
And melt in the fields
And let the fumes of
Reality intoxicate
And suffocate you until
You breathe sober…
Dead sober in love.

**

Another poem from the muddle of beautiful and tangled time with my artist-love.  “I’m yours because I want to be.  I love you.”
 

The Rose

Do you know that I’m here still
Staring from a window sill.
I wish that you could see me too
I wish that I could be like you.

Note: I once was in a relationship…the artist kind. The one that drives you to create at all moments of everyday, but you know it’s broken. I have stumbled upon a file of poetry I wrote at that time. I look forward to sharing it with other artists who might get it.