two poems from the old man bar
Pour me another pitcher of wine.
My preference is to drink to life
rather than hide from death.
Face me, Fear!
Look me in the eye, coward,
because there is nothing you can take from me anymore.
My life will not be wasted embracing you
as I push on forward towards the inevitable.
Hope and love cannot exist in your soul, Fear.
This I learned many years ago
and too many times you have tried to break me,
you and your disciples,
and a few of those times you almost succeeded.
But those times are long gone into the abyss of the past.
I have looked you in the eye,
into the eyes of those who have lost the battle to you,
empathetically have embraced the broken
who could not withstand your persistent pressure.
You feast on the weak, Fear,
but my soul is alive, you wretched coward,
so satisfy your hunger elsewhere.
You will not gaslight me into believing in
your lies your existence nor your importance.
I know you are only a whisper of fiction.
So, pour me another pitcher
and I will breathe and laugh and
play with the dogs of death as long as and whenever I wish to,
because i know their shadows,
and not your fictions,
are what give me my life.
——. —— ——
I sit here in a room of ghosts
of mighty gentle and delicate men
of dreamers and lovers, the purest of men
philosophizing as renaissance men
broken and forced to be men
mocked and rejected for being men
lost and trapped children in the bodies of men
drinking to forget and escape their responsibilities as men
alone lonely lost romantics of men
staring into their own abyssal ghostly room of men
This is the womb,
the room in which I prefer to sit,
the only room where reality exists