by andrewmam

Strange times bring you back to places like these.
You know, places like this white blank; background a
hollowed space filled with thoughts lingering,
the sole desire to fill in the voids in time
When everything doesn’t seem to add up.

the series of events unfolding before me
as I settle into being back in my own city.

Unexpressed manhood, the bubbling frustration.
At the club, I thought I was supposed to see bubbly,
but all I see are bubbles in their blood as it drips from their lips.
The standing man takes one shot to the dome
to pay for boots bloody mary’d on another man’s face;
You pray no man will shake the shooter
in this scene so palpable you have to swallow.

She screams because her friend has stumbled
her protection effective as group grinding on the dance floor.
But her yells don’t penetrate the chatter–

the sounds are too loud in this place.

The walls of young mens’ minds filled with soundtracks
scored by trap dreams and dreams
of being trapped.
Her friend cannot get up
after rhythmic stomping
so she, in a split second,
decides her night on a kamikaze.

She gets thrown to the ground.
and I see him, staking his shot.
No honor, no manliness, no machismo.
No value, no reward, no real power.
Just bubbly, burning, blood.
He sprints 10 feet across the floor,
and sucker punches her, launching her from atop her feminine heels
to the ground where gender apparently doesn’t matter anymore.
Her stumbled friend still laying bloody on the ground.

This takes me beyond monkey’d madness,
alpha silverbacks testing iron resolve.
This is only a violence man can create,
that soaks its roots in emotional frailty.
Reminding me of the city I saw growing up.
Many boys who just need to be held.