Everybody's lookin’, but nobody can hide.
The Cavalry is comin’ with an outlook on life
that tells ya everything should be fluff and puffs of smoke.
Meanwhile back home, I shuffle through wrinkled clothes.
“Ya gotta look real spiffy, gotta talk without an ‘Um.’
Rehearse every inflection, don’t be a God-damned bum!
Button that shirt, tie that tie, and comb that hair!
You gotta be grounded, you gotta show ’em that you care!”
Women fallin’ on me like a clan o' nookie ninjas.
They like the lovin’ rough, but not as much as when they leave ya.
I'm wanderin’ ‘round without a care to my name.
I'm the kinda man who prefers to just abstain.
Anxiety attackin'– I’m accused of awful things.
Assuage your rash assumptions; I’m no man of fitful flings.
The Purity Police exchange looks, exhale thick sighs.
But later, under covers, they’re the ones spreadin’ their thighs.
I was taught that Death is lurkin’ in between a woman's legs,
either in their system or in their soul – you will beg
to the top of your lungs; in Heaven you will cry:
“I'm not that bad, please give me another try!”
Misogyny is mouthed and muttered, murky as a mother.
Even Mama mocks the maids as mistresses and lustful lovers.
That must make it alright to condemn a whole damn sex.
If you’re a woman, you’re wanton. Let’s not make it so complex.
Drinkin' Mama's whiskey, smoking Daddy's cheap cigars.
The lines upon your face become the battle's deepest scars.
You could keep it inside, but that's not what you're gonna do.
Looks like some Devil done got ahold of you.
Passion fire burnin’ only embers in dead wood–
It's not the kind of fire in your youth you understood.
Somethin’ is gone, blown out in the wind.
All you wanna do now is find a new way to sin.
Preacher rantin', ravin' with a good old-fashioned stomp–
I'm tryin’ to listen to The News. No, ain't nothing wrong,
except for The Girl in Black sittin’ up two pews–
She's the kinda girl for whom there's nothin’ I wouldn't do.
Suckin’ down that coffee, coughin’ on my cigarettes.
My eyes are wide and won't blink; no, there ain't no moisture left.
The bed, it's a-callin’, but I just can't call back through.
The blank page bellows blindly; my brain’s a-brewin’ a new kinda stew.
Sister tells me, “Brother, you're a whole mess and a half.
Half the time you're kidding, and the rest you're just an ass.
Why don't you just settle down and learn how to be a man?”
I told her, “Sister Dear, I got too many things to plan.”
Voices screamin’ at me from my head and from outside.
My hair is wild and greasy; got a feelin’ deep inside.
If I kissed a young woman, my stubble’d cut her quick.
I'm just too far gone to make any kind of switch.
Blasphemy is sittin’ on the outskirts of my brain.
I like to love sweet Jesus, but the Devil makes it plain:
I'm mostly just his, despite what my heart does say.
I'd take the love of God over hellfire any day.
Comic books and movies and a feelin’ of respect
from other folk who like to geek and argue and collect.
“You’re just a child,” my woman said with a scowl.
She told me, “Grow the hell up, and ya better do it now.”
I don't miss my woman, I told her, “Get away.”
She promised I'd regret it in just a couple days.
But the joke is on her, I was already on the mend.
I was just sittin’ 'round waitin’ for it to end.
Grown men waxin’ body hair and actin’ all aloof.
Chicks don't like hair in the cellar, just up on the roof.
They want a man that sparkles – shiny and so damn smooth.
But if that were true, how come there's so many wolves?
I done come to grips with the fact I'll die alone.
Regardless of a woman bein’ by me at my home.
It's such a personal thing, leavin’ a life gone by.
Honey, dry your eyes–
I believe that a man can fly.
David C. Roberson's Maladjusted Multiverse is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is incredible. The commitment you give to allowing so much space to write all this is awesome. Great poem!