I love you honey, but....
There used to be an
R involved with the U
in that phrase… And
an additional T… And maybe
no punctuation, except
a period precluding
further vocalization. Either way,

I been married long enough to be
suspicious
of any phrase involving
the use of
honey.

He bleeds
     tidys up alone
supplications to a wife
     are whining
Grow up! That's life! Women
     choose to not understand
although they can
     it's not to their advantage
and men don't discuss
     unless it's sport
male ego cannot
     appear weak
thus he bears in solitude
     this quiet despair
but, refusing to conform
     he picks up a pen
finds a true friend
     and a poet is born

When boys talk
competition
that's the point
something to be won
I must be right, so
you must be wrong.

When girls talk
words are shared
Oh, i know, I know
what's the point?

It doesn't matter who's right
it's expression that counts
when girls get together.
Boys run from discussions
with girls who use words

like fists - no surprise.  Boys
punch boys who dare
 use words in the  manner
of Girl Rules: like
no designated hitter in
their National League when
The Boys are the Yankees.

It seems
to a man
a woman just can’t help it
or rather a wife
‘cause a non wife woman
has a goal and a plan:

"Oh, my God!
Just look at this mess.
I don’t understand why you...
Instead of..., why don’t you....
When I married you, i thought...."
There! Stop right there!

When she married him,
she thought.
He didn’t, but
that’s another issue.

She thought.
But, what?
She thought he would do,
maybe,
with a little fixing up.

He thought,
as she gazed up at him
That she was enraptured, but
she was only estimating the job,
the scope and the cost,
the potential for profit: He’d
do, if he stopped that
and learned to do this.

A free spirit snared,
trained for the coming circus.

It seems,
to a man,
that a woman just can’t seem
to help herself.

But, she can;
it’s all part of the plan.

In the sense of context

Which defines Man

As men must be

Yet, to define

In three letters exclamation point,

Is to undefine

That which takes ages

To undo. But,

Then again, men

Are soooooo simple, no?

Motivated by ego,

Secure as the ninth boy

In a Little League batting

Order, driven by Libido,

Secreted like Niagra.

Men control things, except

For, you know, that

One which women control

And mock, thereby controlling

The Universe, so you see

Ladies, it's all your fault.

Oh, HOW MALE!

So small, this
feminine vision of
lust in lace and
passion to be
possessed so e-silly.
Small, like the rudder
of the Titanic, Mr.

Big Man Ship turned
this way and that, or
rammed into destiny.
Only the rudder
has the final say.

Little men
All in a row
Each with butt
One thought, me
Choose me. She

Flaunts her power,
Takes her time. Who
Will provide the
Night's amusement? They

Why write for men?

Men, manly men,
big strapping men,
don't read poetry
can hardly hold a book, with
feelings dulled by knuckle draggin';
write for women!

The abused eternal care givers
who solve the world's troubles,
once given the vote,
or maybe not.

Who condemn us for reacting;
who cry when we don't.

Both know abuses, but
men have no voice, so
while men control things,
women control men
and deny it with lip quiver.

It's time to speak the male heart
which avoids blue goose shops
smelling of potpourie,
but will breathe in words
written in blood
on sheets of leather.

The boy became a man,
yet remained a boy;
an equation of attraction
so pleasingly erotic, you
chose to share your bed.

The man brought tenderness;
the boy liked to bounce
about, rumpling
the sheets and pulling the sham
from the skirts.

You sought to fetter the ankles
of this joyish Imp with lecturous
weights of control. Though,
even when tired of resisting,
he lay smiling with you
King Kong could always
break free, jump
about somewhere else;

but,

he's found your weights
just make him stronger.

Then, painfully, complain-
fully laden and all, he
puts down the paper, turns
off the game, quits his
endeavors, "just shut up
already, I'll go."

Tis better to have loved

and lost than to still have

the lesson to learn

Twice divorced, an idiot
seeks another round
of bondage. Wisdom

relishes freedom, knowing
serenity for the first time.

of arrogance; her string
snaps he soars free.

In a moment unguarded
Sudden emotion overcoming
Practiced restraint
In a warm flush of feeling
Came desire to share himself
The hidden delicacies of his soul
But, what private male thought
Is worthy of woman?

He spoke of clothing
And E.L.O.,, The concert
With color born in sound
But only disappointment
Nothing reached his heart
Then, cut off in mid expression

          "You don't need a sweatshirt!"

He swallowed unshared words

          "You have one from vacation!"

How stupid, now he remembered

          "You've never even worn it!"

Why they drove on

          "You do remember, don't you?"

In one sided silence.

Girls are cute
women invasive

Why so difficult to
see through the bait
and view the hook
realistically?

Like young men, consumed by
glandular emotion, the allure of
her bait obscuring the purpose
of the hook, the third world
rushes to the subtle bondage
of Western Materialistic Slavery.

Twice divorced, a wise man
relishes his freedom.

(to the tune of Pink Floyd's "The Wall")

We don't need Viagravation

we're fin'lly free of mind control;

don't bother trying to re-enslave us

now that we've found out who we are.

Hey, ladies -- we like the way we are.

In the past libido ruled us

we didn't know how to control

the zombie state which burned within us

for desires we can't afford.

Now, drug-free -- we've got the final word.

See, we're free from bees and birdies

free to look and walk away;

yet, should you offer flowers and candy,

we could decide to find a way.

Hey, ladies -- just let us have our say,

we might still want to play

or walk while holding hands,

we're not ruled by our glands;

just let us have our say,

we're free to walk away - Hey,

Frank, care to get it up to play around

of golf?

A moment, pause - catch a breath: like

safety gained from pursuit of bees

outside banging at the windshield, searching

for a crack in my reflection. Forty years

of buzzing venom still threaten,

thick mists swirl, then clear to reveal

the looking glass frosted

in dim light, but there;

you discard time as a drugged man

casts the shadow of him in pursuit

of the fix the libido. Then, to awaken

mid swarms of honey barter; no,

instead to flee (you fled) the

blanket spread of Eden's picnic garden.

Leasure chicken, fried with bones and skin (not

sterile breast broiled in oversight) and dancing,

children at carefree gallop, halting

for a sudden flutterby

to sniff a blossom - learn

of stings - au’ pain. Perfume

(bees and birdies) swirls your head with buzzing

from within - years pass

to nature’s puppet masters.

Essence goes, comes ‘round distilled

to those beyond - offers options.

You shrug free, decide

pollen enslaves the bee

but a flutterby larva, once

cocooned,

enjoys a gentler way.