This poem separates the stanzas
to separate the different kinds of men.
Now this is gonna sound like a poem for the ladies,
but it’s really just a note for the boys
because fella’s, the snakes are in the grass
and we want to know where you stand.
Out where the blades weave over our feet
and all out toes become blind fingers.
Where do you stand?
This is where a feeling of retribution
has us mixing up our words,
a desire to help has us twisting definitions.
A safe space is becoming synonymous with like-minded opinion,
and the word ‘Trigger’
is being used as a warning for foul language
and we still don’t know what to do.
I think we’re going to rip some skin off with this band-aid
because this is a world
where the doctors are the last to know
and on our own,
we’ve each let an olive branch die in our hands.
Now I’ve heard rumours,
facebook rumblings,
as blatant as its own website
and courageous as the most honest of expressions.
So this is now a poem for those snakes in the grass,
those would-be poets
stealing their words from the actions they insinuate
and the stories that they fabricate
and we need to face the fact that we’re already friends on facebook.
Now I’m talking to my fellow men,
just because women can do this alone,
doesn’t mean we need to leave them alone to do it.
We need to thin the herd,
like plucking weeds from our beds,
we need to take a step back and view each other like the cat in Schroedinger’s box,
dead and alive
guilty and innocent
until that box is opened
and we all become seen for the things we’ve eaten,
because if we ignore this much longer
that box will just be filled with the dead kittens nobody wanted anymore.
In Spoken Word
there is a light side and a dark side to the force,
so be careful because there are spells in the proper use of metaphor
so these either are… or,
these aren’t the droid’s you’re looking for.
We cant ignore that our wool is no longer made for warmth,
but rather something to be pulled over the eyes of the unsuspecting,
like that friendly text message sent at midnight.
Just like there are 3 sides to every story,
mine, your and what really happened,
there are 3 types of men.
And some of us want to show the world
that we represent more than just physical strength
because the strength you have is fleeting,
falling through the fingers you think you can actually feel something with,
you’re the type that still goes to the length
that suffocates the people you hold down,
so to that one type;
You’re the reason we’re not trusted
and it makes me feel a little violent
because you’re using us
to get to them
and if that makes us the middle men
then our type will move at once
and stop you from hiding in our shadows
like the air there gave you breathing room
until your hands followed up on your eyes expectations.
There are those of us who hope you meet the sharp end of a knife
so what you need to do is hop a train and run for you fucking life.
But even though we get heated
and our instant reply
while we jump to her side
is to be supportively LOUD!
And express our desire to HIT SOMETHING!!
But we’re learning…
a trigger is something that might force back a memory into someone else’s mind,
but then there’s body language
something as simple as reaching for a cup too quickly,
or the coincidence
of a shared walking path late at night.
So this is a poem to separate the men from the boys,
because our eyes are open,
we’ve stopped looking and now we’re hunting,
we will find you out for what you really are
and we wont have to give you a trigger warning
because what you’ve done to others has never been done to you
so we will only tell you this…
You are no longer welcome
Your pencils are too phallic
and there are those of us
who want to staple you to the wall with every pen you’ve ever touched.
But violence…
violence, we already know we’re capable of,
so we choose to leave it in the only strength you have left
because you’ve put us in a position
where we can only face our sisters
by turning our backs on you,
well I’m looking at her now
and together we have more than just strength,
collectively we have the power over memory
a power you couldn’t imagine,
to make sure that you’re forgotten.
We can delete every lie you’ve ever recorded
and whatever’s left will be loaded
with comments and links to who you really are
and only your reputation will be attached to your name
and the cringe that shivers down her spine
will become the only thought that follows the image of your face.
even your greatest poems will become nothing more
than the words you’ve stolen
because the locks on our doors have no idea
if you’ve got a key, or if they’ve been picked,
but we know you’re in the room
and most of us are guilty
we’ve heard things we’ve dismissed
thinking ‘That’s not so bad’, or ‘That’s kinda funny’.
we’ve heard others things we’ve dismissed
and ended the thread of that thought
like scissors were more than a couple of one-sided blades.
In these times
we allow ourselves to feel busier than we really are,
so quickly rubbing our days together
just to make it through the week,
so to every last one of us
we’ve let our excuses become our alibi’s.
Only half listening just to keep the boat from rocking,
but there are some things
being late for cant be apologized for,
but we’re still sorry.
We’re sorry it took a website and the size of a spokeswoman’s name,
but for what it’s worth
a lot of us would like to join you,
a lot of us feel as though we already have
and a lot of us would like to know for sure
who the some of us really are,
show you that the some of us
are not the sum of who we are.
But we cant help stop something
if we cant see the individuals,
to put a face to the name
like a shiver in the room.
So from this moment on, every sing-up list I organize
will keep an empty space where your poems used to be
and not a single name will be called.
We will remember you for what you really are,
the patriarchy that hides in art,
like the bruise in the fruit that begins from the inside,
because men like you are the reason
why women bleed in the wrong way,
the reason our history is told in riddles,
the reason we had slave ships
and heard English off the lips of children lost in a residential school.
We’re turning our backs on you,
so our faces can finally face a freedom
where the merger of patriarchy and ideology
will one day have too many broken fingers
to even attempt to remould the forms of who we choose to be.
