I Weep,
Therefore, I Am
I've read "Fire in the Belly" and "Iron John", I'm
quite familiar with
Robert Bly's take on being a man and the importance of embracing your
feelings, even though we of the masculine persuasion are taught by
society that we're not supposed to. I'm actually in favor of The Men's
Movement in theory. I think that anything we can do to be more
understanding of ourselves is a good thing. However, I'm not about to
go on one of those "drum beating, loincloth wearing, sitting over a fire
in a sweat lodge with a bunch of other guys who I don't even know"
retreats. I've already undergone extensive "intense feeling therapy".
I've paid 150 bucks for each of the two 45 minute hours per week I spent
smacking a couch with a foam rubber paddle, followed by a reliving of
the most painful memories of my childhood, only to find out the two
things I already knew.
1-I'm fucked up.
2-It's all my father's fault.
So I'm not in that much of a rush to shell out 2500 dollars for the
privilege of sharing a sobbing accountant's pain in describing the
emasculation he experienced at the hands of his unfeeling grandmother.
Let alone do it in a loincloth while I perspire like Richard Simmons at
a Barbra Streisand concert.
And yet, I desperately want to seem as sensitive as all those guys that
do. I'd hate to think that I'm any less of a man, just because I'm a
callous, insensitive bastard. I can whine like the best of them. So
I've gotten in touch with my sentient, emotional side, and dipped deep
into the well of my artistic creativity to allow some short prose and
blank verse to flow from within my very being. Just to prove that I can
cry like even the most masculine of guys.
So strip down to your BVDs, sit in the bathroom and turn up the hot
water in the shower until it gets steamy, and read these to yourself
while beating on a Tom Tom.
At the very least, you'll save a coupla hundred bucks.
FISHING FOR THE TRUTH
A boy sat with his father alone, fishing on the banks of a river.
And although he loved to fish...the boy was sad.
His mother had just left him to go live with the angels.
After awhile, the small one finally broke the silence
Is it okay to be afraid? Is it bad for a man to cry?
The boy said, his eyes brimming with the water of pain.
The father turned to face his son.
Your mother is dead.
Shut up and fish.í
THE RIVER
The boy went to the river a child
Sent by his mother to fetch water.
The road was steep and filled with stones
He returned from the river no longer a child
He tripped and split his head open like a melon
A boy must taste blood to become a man.
I hate my father.
EMBRACING THE STORM
A warrior stood in an open field
Thunder, wind and lightning all around
No iron shield or sword to yield
And higher ground could not be found
No comfort from his manly gender
No choice but impotent surrender
My father sucks.
THE WATERHOLE
A woman went to the well with an old, oaken bucket
Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not fetch water
But then a man came, and he too had a bucket.
And tied to his bucket was a rope,
So when he lowered it into the well,
He drew much liquid.
"I could have done that" the woman sneered,
"If I had a rope like a man"
"I don't think so" the man replied.
"You are a woman, and your bucket
Has a hole."
THE HUNTER
The Hunter went into the forest
The forest where many had gone and none had returned
3 days passed and the Hunter returned with his prey.
"I wept for the beast...before I slit its throat" he said.
"And my woman mocked me."
"I blame my father."
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