The male poet overcompensates
With poems of unbridled bravado,
Giving unwanted details of
Disemboweling a deer with
Bare handed desperation.
He counts his sexual conquests
With disquiet and undue clarity,
Each sweaty fumble declared
Victory over inadequacy and
Untold performance anxiety.
Somebody once called him queer
And set him on a course of
Toxic masculinity, but the
Voice that haunted him most—
That he couldn’t escape—was poetry.
R Horton
The knocking of the bamboo
In the wind
Restores my awareness.
Su Dongpo said he could live
Without meat but not without bamboo.
Bamboo brings life, of course,
As meat destroys it, but
Dongpo had a different
Understanding (he loved eating meat),
Yet his words weave
Through the leaves
With warning and assurance
Of life whose end has not
Arrived so long as bamboo
Sways her promise to us.
I’ve seen you enveloped in passion
Entranced and wandering aimlessly
In all consuming lust as you fold
Into taut skin stretched over
A well-tuned bicep shimmering
With the sweat of ones who
Would possess you,
Confiscate your love,
Loyalty, lust, passion, devotion,
Breasts, lips, thighs,
And even your new mountain bike.
I’ve seen you capitulate to complete
Sexual abandon and forget
Your past, your future, and your
Unpaid mortgage. On some
Occasions, you switched from
Lover to lover in your bed
Like a child trying different
Ice creams at the shop with
So many flavours.
I’ve seen you soak the sheets,
Draw blood with your nails,
And shriek till the rafters shook.
You took it all in,
You put it all out.
You forgot who you were.
You looked through me,
Past me, beyond me.
You forgot I existed,
And when you remembered,
You laughed.
You laughed.
Then you shouted.
I had no business blocking
Your way to paradise.
I had no reason to be in your way.
But as you stroke my back,
I open my eyes,
And remember why I came.
As friends solemnly told him to call
On them if ever he needed anything,
Only his pastor was candid enough
To tell him Jesus alone would stay.
And so it was as it had always been,
Walking alone on the beach, in town,
Along the highway, and in the upstairs
Hallway with no memory of being carried.
He supposed Jesus was a faithful companion,
But a bit quiet, and not much help when
A flat needs fixing. He’s someone you can
Always talk to, but feedback is lacking.
And why should Jesus be different from the
Others? Why would the Son of God care
That he was lonely? Why would he look
For Divinity in the deep pools of loss?
Randall Horton
You’ve been all over the world,
But you’ll never know where I’ve been.
The lonely street in this lonely town
Took me to hell and back again
If you’re lost in Legget, Texas
You must be broke down
Cause there’s only one road
In this ol’ one-horse town
You’ve seen more things than I will ever know.
And you’ve done things I’ve only dreamt about.
But my heart’s a path well trod.
The things I’ve seen make me want to black out.
You can find my family if you look
In the cemetery behind the church.
But you don’t want a complete history,
So I think you should just end this search
This town always had a story
That most are too afraid to tell.
Don’t ask too many questions
Or you might meet me in Hell.
If you’re lost in Legget, Texas
You must be broke down
Cause there’s only one road
In this ol’ one-horse town
Randall Horton
You may think it’s blank—
Or even free—
Verse, but you may be
Unfamiliar with the voice,
The accent, the dialect
Of the author.
You don’t see the rhyme
If you pronounce things
Differently. And you may miss
The meter, if you speak with
A different cadence.
Randall Horton
After the first date,
She asked if he knew of Gestalt.
He said he only knew tiny bits
But he felt his mind gave him
The whole picture.
He asked if she had read Hegel.
She insisted that she had not,
And they were both amazed
To have discovered such
Compatibility through
Chance encounters.
Randall Horton
It is most important, he said, to never
Ascribe to your subjects the feelings,
Intentions, and desires of humans.
You must make assiduous reports
Of behavior devoid of motive or
Explanation. The maternal adult screamed
But never wailed in sorrow, for
We cannot assume she is capable
Of sorrow. We cannot assume
Her frantic clamoring expresses
Either desperation or lamentation for
The infant stolen from her hours before.
We cannot assume she feels what
Humans feel or, indeed, is capable
Of thoughts or intentions at all.
But do remember that our work
Is important, as these specimens
Are perfect subjects for the study
Of human medicine. Their biology
And neurology is so similar to human
Biology that we can safely assume
That any treatments developed
For them will have similar effects
On their human counterparts.
What is safe for your subjects
Will be safe and beneficial for
Humans. Any deleterious effects
Must be recorded, of course,
As you have an obligation to humanity.
Your aim is to improve human well-being.
He picks up the guitar and his fingers begin
To glide across the frets and strings.
Decades of muscle memory carry his hands
Through songs and solos that could go for hours
Without repeating or pausing to remember a note.
He was never a household name like the guitar gods
Of arena rock, but he was never hungry, either,
And every dime he earned came from music.
If he wasn’t known to millions of adoring fans,
He was known to thousands of admiring musicians.
He always had a gig and appeared as a session
Musician on hundreds of recordings in genres
As diverse as jazz, classical, R and B, bluegrass,
Rock, funk, and country and western.
He was unassuming but confident and formidable.
As he played, a much younger man watched
With a mixture of envy and admiration and
Recorded on a cell phone. With appropriate permission
Granted, the recording was uploaded to the masses,
Languishing for a few days before catching on and going viral.
To the online world, the veteran performer was reduced
To an adorable elderly gentleman who amazed
The people around him by being able to do what
He had done for the 50 years preceding. His new
Fans felt they had done him a favor by describing him so.
Please be advised that all characters
Appearing in this work are fictional.
Any similarity to real people,
Alive or dead (even you)
Is purely coincidental.
The author wishes to assure the reader
That he gives you nary a thought
Since his last work was released to
The general public.
In fact, the author never thinks of you,
Except when he smells someone wearing
Your perfume.
He did think he heard you last week
When he bumped into someone with the
Exact same laugh,
But that is just the mind
Playing tricks on itself
And has no real significance.
The author wishes to assure his
Audience that he has abandoned
The use of muses,
And relies on his own imagination
For all the intrigue, conquest, and
Psychopathic machinations that
Appear in his stories, poems, and songs.
He would appreciate your
Trust and confidence
On this matter and
Sincerely apologises for any
Embarrassment or inconvenience
He may have caused.