His Role, His
Sword, Him, and Me
© Mimi Wolske, December
2009
All Rights Reserved
In he
sweeps,
through
an open door,
just
after a big
gust
of testosterone
and
tumbleweeds of
pubic
hair,
with
his not-so-fresh
claims,
after
relative
obscurity,
on
everyone's
attention.
Male
wounds.
Male
rights.
Male
grandeur.
Male
whimpers of neglect.
Masculine
cultivation
of his
feminine
side
was,
perhaps,
ejaculated
prematurely.
Problems
with
his
male identity.
His newly
found
impregnable
humorlessness
embarrassment
goads
his
male conscious,
male
pride,
male
rage.
He
demands,
but
from whom,
to
have returned his
Zeus
energy,
divine
energy,
hurricane
energy,
so he
can once more
brandish
"the
Vajra sword"
of
sexuality,
of
courage,
and to
dream of
championing
the
moist,
the
"swampish",
the
wild,
the
untamed.
He
awaits my words:
"Oh,
pierce the
dangerous
places
with
your handfuls
of
courage so
I may
receive
my
reward...
in
the bedroom."
Ephemeral
Journeymen,
eco-masculinity,
seed-bearing
male,
bristly
and prickly
authority
to be
accepted
for the
sake
of the alpha male.
"Kiss
it," he demands.
I
submit.
I
kneel.
I
embrace.
I
kiss.
I
worship.
(This is one of my older poems...but it was on my blog site that was hacked, so I'm hoping there will be many who haven't seen this.)
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