The Tough Stuff

Okay, Bush, today
Tough stuff, sort of, a poem,
To wit, this: an old friend
Sends me, via email,
This damn long
Rope of a poem, knotty,
Twisting down the page, (pages,)
So here I am
Climbing down it,
Hand over hand, that
Physical.
It’s like, Bush,
“hard work” as you like to say.
No, really, at times
The ride is easy, gliding
Comfy, a few lines, then
Glottalstop. A clump
Of undigested language, a real,
Hard, headlock, impenetrable image,
(What does THIS MEAN? Jesus...)
And you’re stuck there
Clinging to the knot.

Anyways, it IS something to
Grab onto, shit,
Pardon my French, Bush,
Something to chew on
Play with, pull
Apart. Some of them, though,
Come just that easy, malleable, finger-
Soft to the touch. Sexy.
The ones that resist,
The ones that say no,
Well,
It’s okay, no sweat, leave
Them be, leave them
Hard and knotty, as they are. Come
Back to them. Maybe.

Here’s what I get: it’s all
Male and female,
Sweaty, tough, “penetrating,”
Like that, it’s
What the eye feels, what the heart
Sees, what the hand
Can fondle or stub
Up against; what my friend
Calls “the braid”, I think, of all things,
Twisted
All together, the “everything” of it
So tight, you can never
Separate the strands, not really,
Not really, not all of them, not
“Understand” it, see? Which makes it
real, as I see it. Real,
Bush, see? Look
At your hands. You been
Jerking off again, son? You been
Working that chain saw?
That’s
Real. Love a man
For that tough stuff, though.
Sort of.
That’s the core.