writers – Page 2 – Kevin Trent Boswell

like a house of

like a game of
Jenga, or Operation

like the careful restructuring
of a house of cards

how to
delicately slide
the desired shape

out of its current position
and into the one
I choose?

it’s absolutely essential
to have a steady hand,
to avoid upsetting the harmony

must not startle,
or cause alarm

she is nestled ⠀
comfortably
into her little nook, ⠀
her home

if it is indeed possible that
she might be moved by me…

then I must proceed
ever so gently, deftly,
with the greatest
of charm and tact

otherwise, the whole structure
could come tumbling

down

one must be debonair,
unhurried, poised, skilled,
perhaps even a bit
devil-may-care

for a handler of cards,
the appeal of the card
is what strength she brings to his hand

does she make for a
weak pair of twos?

or does she complete his straight flush?

does she make him look and feel
like the winner of the game?

but the card herself,
she is far more impressed
by the manner in which
an adroit dealer is able to
adeptly and confidently ⠀
handle her

expertly positioning her
without her necessarily
noticing

she wants to feel
safely controlled,
lovingly held,
as a crowning
symbol of
fulfillment
and fruition

but if the Queen of Hearts
is yielding…

if she offers some assistance,
some small help
in wiggling her out
of that lonely position
between the Three of Clubs
and the Four of Spades,
then there’s hope

and I will keep that card
always

up under my sleeve,
right next to my skin

purpled

somehow,
it’s even uglier
on the inside

the surprises,
intermittent,
perplexing

it must be a
challenge
to hide

so much,
for so long,
and so vexing

mask

dwindle and fade,
no satisfaction here
purpose of the ire,
in the open, now clear

garnering support,
an ethos, a ruse,
self-righteous zealot
choose and abuse

don’t need a diagnosis
to tell you to duck;
it walks, and it quacks,
underhand fuck

watch, but do nothing
feign blindness, withdraw
could help, but won’t
the soul—coup d’état

in silence, compliance,
just keep on going,
not twisting the knife,
but watching, and knowing

hardly deniable,
accessory to the fact
encircle the target
enter foul pact

a tribe may be strong,
yet, poisoned in the heart
each member chooses
if they will take part

a bias is a bias,
and roses have fangs
hatred is hatred,
and hate runs in gangs

phoenix incorporated

rising majestically from the ashes
is only useful if you have been
unwittingly destroyed
by circumstances
beyond your control

if you willingly walk into the fire,
time and time again,
because you crave
the feeling of being reborn,
then it makes it impossible
for anyone in your life
to know who they’re dealing with

harness the power of the phoenix

without becoming a full-time martyr
to constant change

Eighty Percent

Eighty percent of all suicides
Are committed by men
In case you weren’t listening,
I’ll say it again

Eighty percent of those who opted
Out of the plan of painful static
Were men, and I seriously doubt
That each one was a drunk or an addict

Labels help us dismiss the men
Who consciously choose not to live;
Toxic Masculinity, effeminate, weak;
Waved off as Liberal or Conservative

We’re expected to behave
As if we’re made of steel
But that’s fairy tale bullshit,
And it’s so far from real

Real men lose hope,
And they check out every day
They’re White, and they’re Black,
They’re straight, and they’re gay

They’re Latinos and Asians,
They’re Christians and Jews
College boys and farmers,
Overcome by the blues

And there was nobody there
Who knew what to say,
Who could (or would) help them
Make the pain go away

We choke on barrels or ropes,
Or we slit our wrists,
You call us narcissists, deadbeats,
And misogynists

If you say “All these men needed
“Was to have faith in God,”
Then your thinking is ignorant,
And dangerously flawed

Our bodies, ruined by painful,
Dangerous hard work,
But a broke or broken man
Is treated like a jerk

Women say, “Open up to me,
“Because I can help you grieve”
But when men share, women scare;
They get turned off and leave

A man carries on in silence for years,
Pain hidden by a noble stealth
But it rarely looks like the typical case
Of depression or poor mental health

More often than not, it’s a mystery
People scratch their heads and wonder,
“But he was so strong, I never knew.
I can’t believe he went under”

When a man can’t provide for his own,
No matter how he labors or tries,
Stumbling beneath an impossible weight,
He collapses from guilt, and he dies

The system dooms most men at birth,
Before we even get a chance to start
It favors the women who hurt us, and lie,
And rip our families apart

But the system wasn’t entirely built
By rich men, on the backs of the poor
There were also many greedy wives
Who yearned for more and more

Anyone who says women don’t lie
Or make up false allegations
Must have been hiding under a rock,
Not living in real situations

Of child support paternity tests,
30% are not the child’s real father
70% of divorces are initiated by women
So, why should a man even bother?

Many modern women think it’s cute,
Clever, and somehow funny,
To tear a man down by cheating on him,
Or using him for money

They say, “Men do it all the time!
“So, turnabout is fair play!”
But it’s not even close to being true
To say most men act that way

The word patriarchy is dropped
About a thousand times an hour
But most males have never known
Real money or true power

We’re told that “all men,” are abusers,
And how a bear could be escaped
But most men have never killed anyone,
Nor beaten a woman, or raped

Eighty percent of the suicide stats,
Men, in pain, and masking
But hey, everybody, we’re all fine,
So, thanks for never asking

Lean on me, brother, if you need to
You’re allowed to hurt and to cry
Soldiers should get furlough and rest,
But you don’t have permission to die