#broetry

it’s the

all of you that gets me

not the some of you,

the sum of you

that brings me to my knees even when

i am in partition

long division

circumvision

vision

of your body beautiful

and mine that mirrors

all your movements

moving to the stars

This salt-stain spot marks the place where men lay down their heads, back to the bench,

and hoist nothing that need be lifted but some burden they’ve chosen this time: more reps,

more weight, the upward shove of it leaving, collectively, this sign of where we’ve been: shroud-stain, negative

flashed onto the vinyl where we push something unyielding skyward, gaining some power

at least over flesh, which goads with desire, and terrifies with frailty. Who could say who’s

added his heat to the nimbus of our intent, here where we make ourselves: something difficult

lifted, pressed or curled, Power over beauty, power over power! Though there’s something more

tender, beneath our vanity, our will to become objects of desire: we sweat the mark of our presence onto the cloth.

Here is some halo the living made together.

see it, place your hands on concrete in the sun

those hands which weave and waver, point and ponder

hands that, without the substrate of reality, would have no means to ground you

that world is your own!

break what bones have fused and sever tendons old

and let clarity set fire to anxious dissonance

be of your world, of your hands and concrete, and be free!

the man made monoliths stand against your will

remarks of the past that stand on chlorophyll corpses

yet thin soles echo the world

your world!

and like cracks in a sidewalk,

botany embraces the concrete jungle

What is there to say

About a man as cold as ice

With a heart made of fire?

Do your insides burn as you bite your tongue?

For good

And for bad

Eyes that never falter

Clearer than crystal

Deeper than oceans

More turbulent than any storm I have ever seen.

I see what lingers

Monstrous

And beautiful

In the depts of those icy waters

Like a siren, it draws me in

Begging me to drown.

But do I throw my fragile form

Again and again

Against the cold rocky cliffside

In hopes to breach the firey

Fathomless depths?

For, what can one speak of love

If not also commitment

Devotion is not born in the man

Who gives up on Everest by backing down

But in the one who climbs

Falls

And climbs again.

So though I am called

Like the flame calls a moth

I am often left to admire from afar and wonder

Who sings your song?

What calls to you?

For though I see the flicker

Behind walls of ice

I cannot know the taste of the flame

Lest the beast part his lips