Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Addiction

Addiction
 
No one ever said, from Moses to Madonna, that’s
It’s gonna be easy, that’s a free ride on the El, that
Ya wake up and it’s all perfect, ya don’t have to
Sell your ass under the street light to get your fix,
Ya don’t have to wander the streets day and night,
Sleep under a bridge or in a cardboard hotel
On the nickel in downtown LA where they all go to
Die and the nuns come with food and the priests don’t
Dwell there, because there’s no hope there.
 
No one ever said from time before there was time until
The time it takes to put these words down that it
Was gonna be easy, cuz it’s never easy and the dream
Is a lie and the lie is that some folks got it easy!
No one gots it easy; in the end the easy is just a fancy
Coffin or a cardboard box in the crematorium.
 
It all ends the same, walking the thousand days
It’s never the same game, trudging along, cuz
We all came here for love and a healthy drink of
Life and some get high on it, some get drunk, the
Rest march to their own drum, ceaselessly, endlessly
To their graves.
 
Counting months and counting years and counting
Missing what’s in the center, life whizzed by like
A quick piss in the dark, it ain’t easy bro,
It never gonna be easy cuz god said so,
At least that’s what the good book says.
 
Live and die by the fruits of your labor, labor it just gets
Expensive, even the Whore selling his ass gets tired,
His veins collapse and they find him dead in the gutter.
Is that it? The divine grace they talk about?
 
It ain’t easy bro, cuz it ain’t never gonna be, that
The plan, through the struggle and through the pain
Past the dark corners that end in blind alleys
There’s a spark of light, for some, many, not all
Many–they traipse sightless and godless ending
Up where?
 
Still 6 feet under. It ain’t easy, it don’t need to be easy,
it just needs to be.

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Words Break Your Back

Words Break Your Back
 
Words ain’t gonna break yer back, but sting and ache,
Shooting some poison darts out there, see who gets
Hit, thrown recklessly, with some black magic spells
Chanted driving men mad.
 
Word shot up in a rig, shot into your veins,
Heedless thoughts carelessly spoken drugs.
Words do not break, as old loves do, they don’t die,
Shooting poisons arrows fuels an addiction.
 
Words do break, shatter like cheap glass; smash
Shards and fragments into your eyes, blinked words inflame.
Shoot up words, the imagination soars with wondrous
Or horrific deeds.
 
Words bounce around the brain, they sing and dance
And scream like banshees on a tear. With each breath
Words longing for death,
Or words singing praises when you ain’t getting’ high.
 
Words ain’t gonna break your spirit, lest you let them.
Let them in yelling, screaming, clamor in your sleep,
Fuck up your dreams.
Wake up and clamor from coffee, stop the assault.
 
Asleep words carry on a bad play with you the lead
And all the words assume, assault, man they shout!
Shout, while you’re lovin’ and they shout after your dead,
Could it be any other way?
 
Words confound, confuse and mystify, strung
Together with the soft music of the spheres, they
Soothe, a panacea for all that ails. Words can bless
Chanted softly over a gravesite.
 
Words spat in anger or fear or doubt to you, worst
Yet to that vulnerable self inside, it matters.
Matter greatly, or matters not at all.
Do let the words nail ya to that cross.
 
Let go the sticks and stones, send out no more poison
Spears with sharp thrust of your arms, see where
They rightly take their place on the scrapheap,
Words can kill, words can heal.
 

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

School Days

School Days
 
School days, school daze, little boy days, can’t
Never guess how the story would unfolds, you
Being some gray-haired out coot now, sitting with
All your gray-haired cohorts, not believing that
Sweet child grew up and became you.
 
What hurt then had no words, could never predict
A life where unfilled emptiness could never be filled,
Pain and insanity of youth, unimagined come to you and
Seeks oblivion in addiction, escaping reality, flees
From the story of life unfolding.
 
Once across childhood’s threshold, into the realm
Adult, never growing up, holding on to toys and
Playthings best left behind, seasoned and vetted,
Not realizing how much trash gets absorbed fills up the mind
That mystified unfilled void, when drugs and their lot take away
All that lay between youth and recovery, if that’s where
The road finally leads.
 
Many die, but this is my story, not theirs. Many
Spend their days locked in a prison of their own making
Deep within some hidden world where no one can
Enter and hurt is gone in dull oblivion
Others live in recovery.
 
You don’t want to talk about this, so neither do I but
We are and we gotta because, its time it came hurtling
Out of its own sick closet. Every hour another dies
And every hour I question god’s intent. Did It make this
Or are we the broken ones? Some get fixed, some fix
And stay broken.

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Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Childhood Days, Gone

Childhood Days, Gone
 
Put aside your toys, get out of the friggin sandbox.
Put aside childhood games, come into the dawning
Maturity, Bring with you, in your heart, and safely stored
Fondest memory, the laughter of childhood,
Hopscotch and jumping rope all life’s simple pleasures,
Birthday parties with cake and ice cream and gifts tied
Up in red ribbon bows, a valentine chocolate cake
And ballerina plastic candleholders,
All safe from the harsh light of older
Years, where not time and memory can harm.
Shed that fortiva lagrima, a gentle cry for lost youth,
Peter Pan and Wendy, in timeless adventure, now
Always boon companions.
 
Grow up! Do your duty, but do not let childhood
Dreams die.
Funny days past when boys in short pants ached for long ones,
Little girls in pigtails pulled by boys, sat at wood
Lift top desks with inkwells.
Teachers drone A and B and how many times 9 will
Equal anything, nothing you’ll care about at 90!
 
We get a beatdown, from morning light til exhausted
Sleep, thinking that childhood was only a time in
Space, but no!
It remains always a gift of happy yore, if only in
Hindsight, when all that screams and drags at the
Heart heavy with reality, when all that ceases,
Close your eyes and think to childhood’s happy
Screams of delight in play.
Clouded with remembered taunting, that little sissy boy couldn’t
Throw or catch a ball.
Childhood dreams haunt and taunt, the hurt lingers.
A little boy or girl, I didn’t know then nor now, I played jacks
And dressed my sisters dolls, I harken back to those memories,
But is best to live in now, always carrying along that sweet child who
Became me in the end.

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