F.E. Feeley Jr.'s Blog, page 12

I am not your homo (poem)

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Derek Owens

i am not your homo

your self promo

your private dancer

or your reason to go on

drown it in gold

its still only a cover

you cannot fathom the essence

of the material deep inside

the only way to expose it

is to expose you

when you stand inside your truth

we meet at an intersection of our

humanity

But

without that all else is caricature

a golden calf paper mache

pretty to look at but void of the inside

even when filled with candy

No god

shake it till it breaks

shatter it

bleed it out

lay it on the floor

get down on your hands and knees

and search through the mess

you still don’t get it do you?

you can’t claim what you’ve never possessed

what you never had rights to

i am not your homo

your non committal fun on a friday night

I’ve already had trick daddy days

that, should you have witnessed it,

still couldn’t articulate

I am not your homo

I don’t belong to you

he don’t belong to you

we don’t belong to you

We are ours and ours alone

Freebirds fleeing your gilded cage

Questions for Evangelicals (Pence Poem)

will you murder me?

swing, swing, from the Maple tree.

I married a man

will he swing next to me?

we said I do – in Iowa

will our ashes be spread there

is that a courtesy you offer?

thoughts and prayers for our hell bound souls

Will you murder me?

Like you allow black men to be murdered?

will there be words like, “If they just changed,”

in the debates on social media

hashtag say their name?

hashtag they were to blame

hashtag Leviticus, faggot

Will you murder me?

Will Fox News and MSNBC differ

will Rachel Maddow lament

no wait – they’ll kill her too

Will Sean Hannity be the apologist

as he tosses a football off screen

Will you murder me?

I’m ready. It’s like a slow boil

I’m ready to rock steady

but do me a favor

roll me in a grave with my brothers

when we haunt history’s pages

I want there to be a family portrait

Call yourselves what you want

spin this however you want

praise the Lord, and get the rope

regardless of rank and station

Evangelical dissertations in front of the Hague

when America is Liberated by some country

with more empathy than the geriatric voting base that voted you in

to them, and me, you’ll be nothing but killers

Fall from Grace (poem)

 

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all at once I was fifteen feet below

kicking, flailing, lungs on fire

I was dropped in the middle of the ocean

after I fell to my humanity from heaven

lead weights of betrayal around my ankles

black water all around me

I could see the sunlight just beyond the surface

turning the water above my head green

Deals with God, please don’t let me die

Deals with Devil, please don’t send me back

I found pockets of oxygen

in the beds of other men, begging them

please don’t send me away

then, I would depart on my walk of shame

down their driveway

kicking my way up

I’d used my youth, and my youth was used

and my face, and my dreams, and my body

as I discovered the truth about me

I was needy, and hungry, and lonely

and terribly insecure

I accepted these things

and the shackles one by one, broke

I kicked hard, to the surface

black spots dancing before my eyes

brain screaming at me to take a lungful

of water

the familiar taste of salt from the sea

my heart beat, thumped, railed, against

it’s steel cage – a lone drummer’s insurrection

freedom was inches from my face

until finally I crashed through that membrane

and all at once, I was free

sweet air, lungfuls, belly breaths

til all at once i came back to me

there I was floating on my back

face skyward – all alone on the sea

Trumpettes in my books ( I did Nazi that coming)

Yesterday, for the first time in presidential history, Donald Trump spoke at a ‘value voters’ summit hosted by the nefarious hate group ‘Focus on the Family.’

After promising support for LGBT Americans, he ditched them for his base.

Mostly, because his presidency sucks and he needs the support of his base.

I really don’t want to focus too much on what was said there, but he validated this organization that stands against my marriage. He told them that they their homophobia will be supported by him. Pence, a virulent anti-gay former governor, passed a law in Indiana that backfired spectacularly. Jeff Sessions has reversed the governments support for L.G.B.T people.

I’ve never been more worried for my country, for my friends, and for my own life as I am now under this administration.

Yet, here we are.

Often times when someone who is an actor, singer, writer, stands up and says something that his base doesn’t like they are told to shut up and sit down or they’re told to shut up and (______) fill in the blank with their chosen profession.

Get out of politics they say.

Well first off, fuck you.

This administration is a direct threat to my family. This goes beyond politics, this comes right into my home, into my consciousness, and it’s influencing my work. It’s anxiety, it’s fear, it’s rage, and fury.

Your political choices are also a threat. Maybe you voted for fiscal responsibility, party loyalty, or the republican party that once was – you know, the one that used to stand for freedom and liberty.

However, the failure of Trump to move any sort of policy forward, legislative or otherwise, and the narrowing of his support to his more virulent fans, has caused him to shift over to the evangelical hate groups with bullshit names like “Focus on the Family.”

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The amount of cognitive dissonance required by you to vote like this and then curl up with one of our books, or books written about gay people, knowing you’ve made our lives that much harder – is beyond the pale.

And yet – here it is. There are other books you should probably be reading. Mein Kempf comes to mind.

Or perhaps some poetry, one in particular by YEATS comes to mind:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Sound familiar?

There’s a lot of scared and hurt people out there. A lot. There’s no telling what this will turn into since the world has decided to lick the proverbial boots of authoritarianism. And once again, we’re engaging in a fight for our survival.

I am reminded of P!nk’s lyric, “I’m not here for your entertainment. You don’t want to mess with me tonight.”

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This idea that people shouldn’t speak out, especially those who are trying to create a brand for themselves, or make money applies to those who are more interested in that side of the equation.  And you may find writers out there who write this stuff and still think like you do. However, that’s evident in the kind of work they put out anyway and it always has been.

These aren’t just books. These are people’s lives. Fictional characters developed from running a pen over the scars people carry.

Thank God, I and so many more of us out there are artists. And Art requires that we honestly reflect the world as it is. So, quite frankly your money is no good here anymore.

Please leave. You’re uninvited. It’s just you and your hand tonight.

 

 

Filos (Poem)

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the clouds drift

in blue skies above my head

pirate ships in silent sailing masts filled

golden sunlight

kisses my body 

in midst of wildflowers and tall grasses

buzzing sounds

as sweet as a lullaby

lay next to me

interpret with me

the holy writ in the stars we can’t see

and let us disagree

and laugh

romance isn’t just for sex

nor for lovers

be my friend first

and be willing to stay here

Water, air

let me breathe

inhale who you are, feed me

and I’ll roar when you need inspiration

protection

I’ll burn away perceived imperfections

be the mother, brother, spouse

to my soul

friend and I’ll return to you

Let us ponder the spider’s silk

inches away from our faces

suspended between blades of grass

and wonder at it

let us write poetry dedicated

to Gaia – mother – the dust

from where we’ll return

there’s no war here

to contest

let us keep each other close

without complications

passion can be pure

no sin

no hurt feelings in golden shafts

of God’s presence

am I selfish?

not when the crickets sing, friend

not when clouds have angels wings

can we map this out?

and laugh at the babbling brook

laying head to head

watching the world pass us by?

the clouds pass by

sunsets come and burn the sky

lightning bugs rise from the ground

and spirits walk

love me – filos

and like the stone, or the tree planted

by the water

I shall not be moved

Betrayal (poem)

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betrayal

the big billboard

lit up brightly

on the highway

of my mind 

and morning song

that rouses

me from my sleep

forces my hand

to steer the car

over to the side

of the road.

There, in bold

red letters scrawled

my redrum

twenty feet high

thirty five feet across

illuminated by glaringly

bright white light

I feel the first

of the emotions

associated with the word

Embarrassment

the sticky heavy thick feeling

like it isn’t dark

like the freeway isn’t mine

like someone

could drive by any moment

and see me sitting

on the hood of the car

knees tucked

under my chin

and see me

with the radio in the car

blaring out

with open doors

and the dome light on

the song crescendos

and falls silent

leaving nothing else

to play but the

wind, the crickets,

and the rattle of an engine

It all comes

down to this one thing

the heart of it all

the epicenter

the truth that I

didn’t factor at all

in their equations

forgotten and willfully so

I become see through

on the hood

why, when, how, who, what

all cease to matter

paling to the red letters

a ghost

I take them into me

mercilessly

giving me substance

forcing upon me

unnecessary courage

under the early

October sky

Thoughts and Prayers (poem)

 

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(Photo: People magazine)

 

shattered bodies


shattered lives


corpses among the debris


58 dead and 500 wounded


yet we see only


what we desire to see


 


He had to have a reason


gimme something to cling to


this free fall moment


is an act of treason


against well built walls in my mind


designed to keep me safe


 


was he a Muslim,


was he a Christian


was he insane and on a mission


from some far flung God


angry at the city of gold


 


was he sad, was he mad


was he working with half a deck


when he murdered concert goers


shooting fish in a barrel


and injured by the scores?


 


Does it matter? Really?


Does it ever fucking matter?


what the motivations really were


because x continues to equal death


regardless of how the equation is built


 


And here we are


another day that ends in ‘Why?”


struggling to understand


demand and reprimand


while no actions are taken


thoughts and prayers appear aplenty


 


how many dead


does this make now


how many maimed and injured?


what’s the count, now


how many have we hurt


as we gather together once again


because your thoughts and prayers


didn’t work?

Tis the Season for Rock and Roll (poem)

 

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dance in the morning

when it’s seven a.m

and the dog is on the leash

with sleep still slowing my limbs

Then the percussion kicks in

and a smile slides onto my face

as i hum along and my stride lengthens

and my blood begins to wake my stiff sore legs

it’s October now and like the change

in the seasons

my taste in music alters as the summer

wind cools

and the shadows lengthen

I need something more dynamic

to reach me where the sunlight wanes

Rock and Roll

with Tina’s steely voice and Janis’

raw sexuality

and Bob Seger’s Night moves ready me

for the season of cold nights

and lovemaking

Before my first cup of coffee

I’ve danced to Boston

lip synced to Steve Perry

and was your private dancer

in this sick cycle carousel

this record player we call life

Coming To (poem)

Coming To

An F.e.Feeley Jr / Dan Stone poem

Him:

I’m giving back the ring.

It’s the last “no” to the questions

we could never answer,

the ones we never asked.

The last step outside

the circle we could

never really manage

to complete.

It’s our fade to black,

our exit stage left and right.

Consider it a token

of regret, a not so

fond farewell,

my “J’ai fini.”

Me:

How were we strangers?

When I know you down

to the scar on your hip

and your cool gray eyes

when i got down on one knee

I tasted the salt on your mouth

and now this ring, a token not of

regret but all that was broken

between two men

How did this happen?

This Au Revior

but there is no good in goodbye

J’en ai fini avec toi

Him:

You would go there,

bring your lips to my ear

and whisper what I’ll miss,

make this ache even more,

remembering how you kissed

that scar, convinced me

it would heal

when all we did

was tear the tender pieces

of our faith apart,

demonstrate how much

we both misunderstood.

I can’t forget your hand

resting on my heart,

your sighs in your sleep,

your feet warming mine,

but I’ll still make that claim

and wish I could.

Me:

I see,

I saw what you did there,

took what I said what I felt

and made it into war

this isn’t about disunity

this is about fear

of letting go of what you were

before we met

of what that braided claddah white gold ring meant

we joined more than nethers to nethers

we became a consecrated union of souls

where I must die and you must die

to birth something new and you now

circumspect, suspicious, and beautiful

still

blame me if you must and lie to yourself

but there is no forgetting as there is no unloving,

no unwinding of what we’ve done

Him:

What would you have me do?

If our scaffolding

still stands,

our bridges haven’t burned

why are you just

standing there,

me over here

both lobbing

weightless words

and turning phrases,

talking what we

cannot hear

or find a way

to wander through?

Where was your certainty

when I needed you

to hold it—me—close,

to bend so we don’t break?

Could it be

we only comprehend

the fear, the grip

and gasp of death

the mess we make

and not the labor,

not the long deep breath

needed after birth?

Me:

put my ring on

is what I’d have you do

as the bow has broken

and the cradle has shattered

on the floor

our masks are stripped away

leaving us more naked

in each other’s eyes than

the bed we’ve shared

I do hold you

as I’ve held you

as I’ll always hold you

I know no certainty, no vow,

no prayer

and without you no pride of place

except for the burning in my gut

and the wretched wraiths of loneliness

howling between my ears , now

I know. I know!

Curse you and damn you!

What would I have you do?

Love me and live and die for me

and kiss and cry and bleed for me

and let us breathe only the air

that exists between us

And the mess we’ve made

Him:

Is this the truth

we’ve wrung from

both our hands,

dug up from our

trench of frowns

our balled up fists?

Could we just now

be coming to?

Are you just now

seeing me unclothed,

unarmed, unbound

by all I hoped

you’d never see,

and are you telling me

it’s what you’ve waited for?

I never knew.

I never even dreamed

this nakedness

could be enough.

I hope this hope,

this match we’ve struck

is all it seems, more

than everything

I’ve been afraid to want,

the blood the sweat

the sweet the salt

the flesh and bone,

a love that rockets

through the midnight sky,

this sun and moon

rising, setting

in our eyes,

this ring back on,

this making up.

Me:

Yes

Jesus on the 50 Yard Line

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Edwin Andrade

I knelt to pray in a great coliseum

a humble gesture

to the cross on Golgotha’s Hill

I turn my heart inside out

desperate

hope, and sleep, and calmness evaded

and tremble in our desperation

Great voices spoke

from the foot of that place

and I heard them all one by one

“They slipped the surely bonds of earth…”

“Ask not what your country can do for you..”

“I have a dream, today..”

“..a day that shall live in Infamy..”

“…that this nation, under God, shall have a

new birth of freedom..”

” …betwixt the negros of the north and the women’s of the south…

“A national sin shall cause a national calamity..”

“I once was blind but now I see…”

“Homo sum, humani nahil …”

I at once so weak and powerless

made all the more humble

at the commanding voices from times long since passed

in an attempt to lower myself further, in my madness

I ate the grass at my feet

and the dirt, and the rocks were made wet

with my tears

A long silence followed

and I dared not raise my head

for the voices that had spoken was to great

and mine eyes too unworthy

until I saw a pair of sandal clad

nail scarred feet standing just inside my outstretched

hands

that braced myself against the burdens of the world

“Oh, my child…”

A warm voice softly spoke

as a gentle hand lifted my chin

the sight I can never fully describe

“I’ve not left you, or them, alone.

For they are the most beloved you see

and the most favored, the most blessed, by me”

“How?” was the only word

that managed to escape my lips

Softly and tenderly he wiped my face

with nail scarred hands and knelt down

to look me in the eye

“My love is not tangible items, my son

a blessing isn’t the same as a gift

and while they thanked me for games and wins and gold

I turned a blind eye

but when they knelt, ah yes, when they knelt

though proud gladiators one and all

I stayed the anger of twenty thousand angry fists

and kept them glued to where they stood

for even though no one could see me

I once again used all that was foolish to shame the wise

and no one would mess with the Seahawks tonight

not with Jesus on the fifty yard line ”