Overexposure
It could happen to anyone, what emotions
do to undo us.
Reveal the unexpected.
In such abrupt instances is it each other we really feel?
Consider this fort of a man.
He’s some cool-headed professor.
Hasn’t his authority been resented, so
stern, so robotic? Here he is now
projecting slides of his Nicaraguan humanitarian trips,
all the peasant women & children, their hunger & his own.
The lectern cracks with some savage gentleness,
& his is a surprise.
Looking back down the road, years & poems on,
where’s a snapshot of this,
& where in the whole world is the wiser revealed?
Jealousy
These glimpses are just beyond nonchalance,
this demeanor of civility. They are ready to flare
Pompeian, jet like lava from the blood.
We don’t make love to each other.
A third party intervenes, its green gaze mirroring the hidden,
a sudden fit enlarging a moment of tenderness
for grown children reduced to shrewish slithering Medusas.
One look and be now stone-turned stolid.
What shines the length of our flesh?
Heated, greased lightning with the fervor of alcohol?
Lust incites possession, fears the urge, loathes the irrational
while passion sips tea and hands us our heads
as salted meat on the breakfast tray.
Workers Backs
Rope-made, the knots, the ties tight between
what lifts & goes & pulls & pushes
hour after hour with or without
any breaks at all.
Any breaks?
All loads are shouldered & found
as a squeeze between boulders,
breathing to go home
Wouldn’t you want to go home
by placing hands there on these muscles
that could steam like horses
watered down after a race
& then go further, give them all
a blanket & a day & a night
where their backs could be
just touch for themselves?
Try This One On
The fender’s impact shrieks.
These wheels, teeth, eat
whatever flesh gets in the way.
Oh you can have that world,
brutality a past-time,
the predator sizing up
the diamond miners’ worth,
so useful unless they get out of line.
Human resources, commodities:
the ghetto boxer’s survival
dependent on beating fists.
Bets from the screaming crowd
are only part of the packaging.
Pal, they’ll call you.
Pal, play your hand.
It’s a shell game.
Later, if lucky, shrewd,
demand top price while the ring,
the ring still takes toll.
Laughter
The good guru—–
wisdom/innocence,
a rush as if from rocks,
water gushing through.
Give air, a gasp, a snort,
innards/spirit, a spray
of baby’s breath, soft rustles
now, hush hush fingers, clap,
cover the whispering
lips, eyes reflecting the sound,
eyes only, squinting & maybe
a few trickles, (lick, trace, let fall),
carrying further what spirits know
living in the torn forth sound.
Stephen Mead is the resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall: https://thestephenmeadchromamuseum.weebly.com/
Stephen is a retiree whom, throughout all his pretty non-glamorous jobs still found time for writing poetry/essays and creating art. Occasionally he even got paid of this. Currently he is trying to sell his 40-year backlog of unsold art before he pops his cogs: https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/stephen-mead
You can find more of Stephen’s work here on Ink Pantry.