Poetry/Non-Rp Fiction

[Alex Ayres]

The Broken Man’s Permission
Aaron Coleman

A crocodile slips its earth-toned body
back into the river, in silence, violence down
and for its nightness


I cannot see the water. With fear
I am alone. Slick rocks smile thin anonymous light, they lie


about what I am. I see and try to hold
my body in my body, trace a vein
from the base of my palm through



the crook of my elbow, armpit, home—home
makes no sense. I’ve given up on what I know.



This blindness is a mirror turning
back to sand still hollowed, where
every sound is amplified. I want to be the crocodile’s



stomach that is my father, teeth
that are my mother, vertebrae



that aggregate the spine that are loves, knuckled
angles casing nerves. It’s me wading around
inside, mouth open. A humid numbness dense, low,



beneath the undertow: hands that coax and claim
my scaled neck, soothe and pull



each knotted shoulder. I give in to a third of moon caught
in cloud, its orange-grey halo drawn away
from what can be named, known. A curse and prayer



to go unchanged within this water, my movement
foreign, a rootless gurgle, flit of river vines



caging the dwindling
river’s brutal bed, the gorge, flushed
with new food: the blue heron’s bone-flight collapsed,



tangled feathers along the mudglut bank’s
saliva, lifting like shame in the open.


About This Poem

“‘The Broken Man’s Permission’ is born out of the emotional awareness that comes after crisis, or during failure. I wrote this while thinking about what it means to be a black cisgender man in our current cultural moment. It feels important not to look away from all the ways that masculinity is broken and to take the next step in thinking deeply and compassionately about not just what to do, but how to be. For me, that process has to do with looking back on my own past—my memories and imagination—and finding ways to transform those feelings into ingredients for insight, genuine connection, and growth. Maybe this poem is trying to find a way to witness a black man’s body in new terms. The poem grants its own permission to embrace masculinity’s vulnerability and imperfections, and as Tagore said, ‘my wounds and also my healing.’”
—Aaron Coleman

[Koj]

It's actually embarrassing but I did this song/poem thing a while ago to try my hand at it.

It's sort of about Scotland but it can taken in different contexts I guess.

[Madadh]

It's very good for just trying your hand, or in general.

It can be very embarrassing coming out of the poetry closet. Kudos for sharing!

[Alex Ayres]

Last summer was the summer I started to hate my dad. I was seven and I loved him. But now I hate him. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that it was summer. It didn’t have to do with anything except me and him. And maybe baseball.
I love baseball. Which is mostly why I love summer. Summer league baseball is the best and my brother was the best at summer league baseball. We both love baseball because of my dad. He played in the farm leagues. He was almost in the majors. Now he owns the best restaurant in our town in North Carolina. They make the best hot dogs. Dad and I would always get two hot dogs with everything on them before going to watch my brother play. He was the best.
One time on the way to my brother’s game, I told my dad I wanted to play baseball just like him. He laughed and said “You should play like your brother. He’s better than I was at his age.” I looked out the window and looked at the lights making the field glow as he parked the car and whispered so he couldn’t hear “I wanna play just like Brett.”
Brett took me to baseball games that summer. In the beginning of the summer, early in his summer league season. We would watch the minor league team from our town at all their home games. He would put me on his shoulders so I could see the whole field and maybe catch the ball. He would ignore the people whining behind us. Babies.
When the peanut guy came around, Brett would ask “Brody, do you want peanuts?” if I said no, he knew that I wanted cotton candy. I almost always said no and I would eat my cloud of sugar while on his shoulders, cheering on the team. I loved him.
Sometimes, I wouldn’t be with Brett. I would be with my friends from school at the lake. It would be fun to be at the lake swinging on a rope instead of being at school. And it was allowed because it was summer. After we were tired from swimming we’d lay on towels and rest. I would talk about Brett and how he was going to go pro. They would say it was impossible, that no one from our town has ever gone pro. I told them that at sixteen he already had college scouts looking at him. They didn’t believe me. I told them to come to his games. They were always busy on nights that Brett played.
About half way through the season Brett hit a home run. It wasn’t his first, but it was his most important. It was the bottom of the twelfth; game tied at 2-2 nobody on base, zero balls, two strikes, two outs. Brett hit it right out of the park. Way over the fence. The pitcher hung his head while Brett rounded the bases. There was a lot of yellow and black around the plate as his team waited for him. It looked like a bunch of bumble bees.
On the drive home, we stopped at dad’s restaurant. Dad bought everyone in the restaurant a hot dog to celebrate Brett’s home run. I had something else to tell my friends about.
I remember we sat in the drive way talking about the game. Dad said it was too bad that there were no scouts at that game. Brett said, “It didn’t even matter. When I was standing at the plate, I could see the fire flies flashing on and off beyond the fence. Like they were cameras from fans. I heard cheering in my head. I gripped the bat tighter and all I could think was ‘this is for you.’ And I thought about you, Dad. And you, Brody.” It made my heart hurt.
A week later, Brett took me out to get ice cream. He got plain vanilla. I wanted to get what he got, but vanilla wasn’t enough. I added chocolate sprinkles. We sat at the wooden tables outside. It wasn’t humid anymore because it was almost night.
I watched Brett eat his ice cream for a little then said “Brett, I wanna play just like you.”
He smiled and said “These are pretty big shoes to fill, Brody.”
“I’ll fill ‘em.”
“You think so?”
“Yup.”
Brett smiled and said, “I hope so.” I smiled back.
More and more scouts came to Brett’s games as the season went on. Brett’s team was going to be in the State Summer League play offs. Dad told him all the time not to get stressed out. Brett promised he wouldn’t.
Me and my friends had spent an entire day at the lake. The sun was behind the trees but we could still see bits of light, cut up by the leaves.
One of my friends said “I saw your brother in the paper.”
“Yeah. My dad saves all the clippings.”
“The papers say he’ll be better than your dad if he keeps playing the way he’s playing.”
“Yeah. My dad says that too.”
“Can I come watch him play?”
“You want to?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
We decided they’d come to the first playoff game.
The night of the game, dad caught Brett on the phone with our mom. He made me go into the other room, but they ended up yelling so I could hear everything.
“It isn’t any of your business, Dad!
“Of course it’s my business! She’s my wife!”
“Ex-wife.”
“What did you say?”
“I said she’s your ex-wife. Ex.”
I heard dad slap Brett across the face.
“Never again, Brett. You will never talk to me that way again. And don’t you ever call that whore again.”
“Fuck you.”
There was a lot more hitting.
Brett didn’t go to the game that night.
The next day at practice Brett told his coach that he had fallen down the steps and had to go to the hospital because he got knocked unconscious. The coach told him to take the day off and go and rest. Brett took me to the lake instead, but he didn’t speak to me at first. It had been a long time since Brett spoke to me. We sat at the lake without going in the water. Brett stared at nothing; I stared at his swollen lip and black eye, then at nothing with him. I listened to the early crickets. They were quiet. Kind of like they were respecting Brett’s thoughts. Finally, Brett spoke.
“Hey Brody. Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll love Dad no matter what.”
I didn’t say anything. I was angry with Dad for what I knew he did to Brett.
“Brody.”
“What?”
“Promise me.”
“No.”
“Brody…”
“He hit you.”
“I know…But he just wasn’t thinking.”
“Why’d he call mom a horse?”
This made Brett laugh a little, I don’t know why.
“Because she did something to upset him. Because she left us. But don’t you ever call a girl a horse. OK?”
“OK.”
“And promise me you’ll love him no matter what.”
“Fine.”
Brett smiled at me.
“Don’t smile,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You look weird with a fat lip.”
He laughed and threw me in the water.
Brett’s team made it to the semi-finals while he was getting better. They went to the 13th inning with the team they played in the quarter finals and everyone knew if they wanted to win the semis, they needed Brett. The coach told Brett he should only play if he wasn’t in any pain and felt he could. Brett said he was ready.
The night of the game, Dad apologized to Brett. I listened from the living room while they talked in the kitchen.
“Are you apologizing because you mean it or are you apologizing because you don’t want me to screw up?”
“Both.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Brett…I really am sorry.”
“Ok, Dad. Let’s just go, we’ll be late.”
“OK.”
They played in the stadium where the local minor league team plays. There were stands and everything. They played under the lights. Everyone from our town and everyone from the other team’s town were there. There were also a lot of scouts, all for Brett. It was loud as people started chanting. When the game started, I lifted my arms to be put on Dad’s shoulders. He didn’t notice. I watched the game standing on my seat. It was close.
In the top of the 6th, the other team scored two runs. The pitcher was good and everyone had lost hope. In the bottom of the 9th, with a man on second, and two strikes, Brett hit a home run. It was like he knew the pitcher would give him a fast ball right down the middle. The game went into extra innings.
Both teams put on relieve pitchers in the 11th. At the top of the 13th, a player on the other team hit a home run. Nobody knew who he was, and nobody cared, because Brett would bat third when his team was up. The first kid got out, but the second kid hit a double. Everyone was cheering. Even Dad was going crazy. Brett would put them in the lead. The catcher ran to the pitcher with the coach, and everyone in the stands started booing. The pitcher was shaking his head, and when the catcher went back, he got into position instead of standing off to the left. Everyone was cheering. The pitcher threw two balls. The third everyone thought was a home run. But it went foul. And so did the fourth. Just before the pitcher pitched, Brett stepped off the plate, giving the bat a few practice swings. He looked right at Dad. Finally, he stepped up to the plate. He swung with everything he had at a horrible pitch. His stance was all wrong and so was his follow through. He was out. The other fans started cheering. The next kid at bat popped out. The other team ran out and lifted the pitcher on their shoulders. He had struck out the best hitter in the State. And they won. Our side was silent.
On the drive home, the car was quiet for a while. Then Dad spoke.
“How did you misread that, Brett?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You read one of the best pitchers in North Carolina’s fast ball but couldn’t read a relieve pitchers’ ball? It was textbook. He was obviously going to throw a ball.”
“I guess I’m just not as good as people thought.”
“Yeah. That’s definitely what those scouts think.”
Brett whispered “Good.”
While driving, Dad started hitting him. He was swerving the car.
“Good? You swung on purpose didn’t you?” Dad yelled while he was hitting Brett. Dad knew he swung on purpose. So did I.
Lights flashed in the car just before the other car hit the passenger seat.
Brett didn’t make it.

[Madadh]

That’s still one of my favorites.

[Alex Ayres]

Where do the kids dance in the valley?
Between the flickers of lightning bugs; in the awakening of Spring.
On top of the green grass, etching stains between their toes.
Close to the sun, face pressed to the clouds, lips grazing the atmosphere.

Where do the kids dance in the valley?
Cradled close to the music, resonating from guitar strings and
drum skins igniting the airwaves. Flames dancing, incandescent,
To light the night and warm the skin.

Where do the kids dance in the valley?
Nearest the moon when she appears, for spring’s concerto
doesn’t die with the setting sun,
nor does the desire to live, to dance, to grow like the crushed
grass beneath our beating feet.

[Alex Ayres]

Short story by Jonathan Safran Foer. Super cute.


https://www.nytimes.com/2004/09/17/opin ... rough.html

[Alex Ayres]

She comes to me at first light,
while I stare out the open window,
our sun’s rays crowning the mountain ridge.

I stare blankly,
inspired,
over a bowl of fruity pebbles.

With her hands on my shoulders,
as she whispers sweet nothings,
empty somethings,
into my ear.

And then she leaves for weeks, months,
sometimes, years, neglected, as life and
other passions take over.

Then one night,
binging egg rolls, General Tso’s,
steamed pork dumplings, and Stranger Things,
there’s a knock at the door.

There she stands,
A day pack,
And not much else.
She shrugs,
I wrap my arms around her,
She raps her words against my ear.

I listen.

[Alex Ayres]

https://www.facebook.com/ButtonPoetry/v ... 453437371/

[Alex Ayres]

The night chased the sun from the sky as fast as it could, the day my breath synchronized with yours.
Ever after,
I breathed in when you breathed out
so I could taste your exasperation.

With a smile you’d tell me that you loved the taste of cinnamon on my breath.
You love cantaloupe, even though you’re allergic
And even when you weren’t around, I could feel your transgressions
On my tongue.
Cold, and sweet.
As I breathed in,
And you breathed out.

But when you left,
A la Seneca,
In a bath.

The taste became humid
And rotten and before long,
Fruit flies would fly from my mouth
In the middle of conversation,
As I slept..
I could feel the larva hatching
On my cantaloupe tongue,
As I breathed in.