Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013

I have not grown wiser in my waning years
more bitter
more disappointed
more beaten
'what's your advice to me old man?'
advice?
while the world crumbles around us?
let's just hope that there is more than what we know
for if the world is left to drift further into the abyss
without intervention
then who will see these words?  
or come say a prayer over your memory?
I always thought it cruel that if our soul moves from one to another
we don't recall the previous life...
or is it just one life with no memory?
I want to remember for we shall certainly leave the ashes of this dismal place...
soon
and all those memories will be lost
in time

(R.I.P. - Rutger Hauer)

there's a place called the Lowe
the Lowe Hotel
100 plus years of souls
passing in the halls
leaning against the walls
that view the Ohio River
in its majesty
the Lowe
where stories were born
and still thrive
the room breathes
and crackles with sound as I sleep
whispers...taps...creaks
they are my connection
and I theirs...
window to the living
there are no years
no time or space to measure

'We get you' she said
in a voice as clear as crystal
and as close as dead can be to the living

why is love such a difficult task
hard to capture
harder to grasp
it calls to you from a lover once yours
as you aimlessly stare from your silence
on these shores
how did it fade into something routine
yet hollow your heart
when it
left

have you ever talked to a ghost
I have
have you ever looked death in the face and survived
I have
have you ever contemplated joining the dead
I have...many times
yet I relinquish those thoughts
once I consider
I would just be adding pain
to pain
turn around