Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry

Who Shall I Be?

what is the matter now, what is all this fuss about?
what is this thing called I, this mass of aging flesh
this heart pumps blood but centers all I feel
gray brain that feels what my heart connects
is this what I am, then, aging living matter connected
to heart and mind
feelings that want to push my insides out
insides that want to push everything away
I do not understand this creation that god made
being remains obfuscated: a question for which
there is no answer, from whence we came evolving a
million years plus to become what we are, hair, bones
an asses that shits, dicks that piss, mouths that eat
tears that cry because we do not yet know our humanness
we evolve and yet we have no humanity
retaining only that prehistoric cruelty
the one device from ape to walking man
which still inside this brain or heart, these millions
of thoughts, feelings, fears, instincts that do
not bend or change
killing is an artform and were it possible I would kill
without heart
but civilization prevents me killing
death everywhere and we, the civilized, shake our
musing heads and tell ourselves we are above that
how horrid such criminality and heartless cruelty survive
I would kill, but I am too weak of heart and mind to do so
lest I become somewhat lower than oft I feel I am
through a crack in the wall, the armor around us
a break in the gate or as mist seeping through windowsills
gaps in doors
spaces between bricks where mortar ekes away from rain and weather
they pass through the gate of my life or I walk through their doors
leaving scarce a breath’s whisper in our comings and goings
we all leave marks on hearts, oh yes, leave imprints on
minds, not one of us passes through without telltale signs
scars too big to bandage
little hurts, feelings hurt and hurts of other kinds


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