Here is one that I found that really fits!

SUMMER NAPS

I wish I could bring
one of my good summers
out for you;

then the prickly-sour
sweats waking me
each July morning

might not keep you
awake in the humid nights
watching me sleep.

I wish I could cough up
my will to live
on the days I catch

looks of fear and loss
when I close my eyes
in the afternoon heat.

A quick note of apology. . .

I am so sorry that I have not added anything in such a long time. I have been in the process of moving from one apartment to another (and much smaller) one, and after all of that nonsense, I went to Dallas for a much-needed five day recess from things. As soon as I get my bearings (hopefully by next week), I will start posting again.

Thanks to all of you who have read, emailed, and supported my own little corner of the world of Poetry. I really do appreciate it.

In Praise of the Other men

I see you
from the corner of my eye,
bloodshot and hazy.
You bring the call-drink dowry
and make the wedding-for-a-night vows
that you always open with.

We dance,
and I watch your perspiration give me
an outline of what I will see
if our negotiations work.
I look into your eyes
for effect,
and to prove my point.

Take me home.
Rape me to the dance floor beat
before I even make the coffee.
Make our time here forbidden,
make each touch count.
Don't even bother telling me your name.

Look at me lying prone
like it actually might mean something.
Hold me with the force
given to that pull down below.
Let our quick and final gasps
say the things best left in the bottom of the shot glass.

We wake up
as the afternoon begins,
and find our costumes scattered
around the unmade bed.
You bring me apologetic instant tea,
and I call the cab home.





-Brian E. Bengtson

Oh my dear Lord, another new poem!

A friend recently asked me why I had not "posted anything new" in a while, and I felt very guilty. Here is a poem about the weird Spring we have had here in Omaha.

Yes, it is short, but still, it is new

Enjoy!

APRIL, 2005

Spring is crawling,
staggering,
and stumbling
towards the city
this morning;

sleep comes easy
when windchills
playfully slap
around the edges
of your skin

and the day
is almost done
before you see
the new life
standing firm
in the still earth.





Brian E. Bengtson

One of my first. . .

This poem was one of the first I had ever written after my diagnosis, and only recently found when I was "digging around" in some old files. Even though so much of my life has changed, much of the feeling remains true.

RAINCOATS


People tell me
of the anger they would have
if they were sick.

They must think anger
is a brand-new raincoat
you button up tight

on a cloudy morning.
I don't need one;
sometimes I like the cold.

I cannot wear my anger now.
I need to practice standing
out in better weather.

A New Poem!!!

This is a new poem I wrote (and rewrote) over the past couple of weeks. I do hope you will all enjoy this:

BUM

My dog and I
saw him lying there
in what could only
have been the bodily remains
of one more wasted afternoon;
in the early evening light
we almost thought
he could be a misplaced coat
left in the park.

I could see his cane,
let go from his shaking hand
and resting on the concrete
like some twisted act of healing;
as if the hand of God,
and not a cheap wine
told him he was free.

In that mixed bag of thought
which never starts
with the best foot,
this could have been me
had I had turned left,
or leaned back
into the self-made void
of pity, wallow, and too much sleep,
or had fallen deep
and let the cracks caress me
like an old wool blanket
left out in the cold.

This could have been me
simply forgotten,
letting the time, smell and soot
of the world wash over
like the first chilling breeze
of an early spring night.

Another old poem. . .

This is an old piece I wrote during my first few years of my HIV diagnosis:




A Piece of the Plague


During these bad days,
I wish I could show you
my piece of the plague;
maybe you would understand
my nervous steps as I march
on this crumbling road
of hovering death and blood.

When the fevers come
in the thick of the evening,
I wish I could just touch you
and scream out this gnawing fear
that is slapping me awake;
maybe you might understand.

As I sit in my usual place
in the waiting room
I watch others walk their own roads
and hear stories of decay,
I wish I could share my pain;
some days I don't have the words.

smirk

smirk
Originally uploaded by Poetboyomaha.

This is my most recent picture. . .

An Old Chestnut

This is an old poem about the noon luncheon at our local ASO (AIDS Service Organization), The Nebraska AIDS Project:

Luncheon

She's there every week;
an infamous Grande dame
of every ten-minute
"before last call" diorama
of missing-cocktail
stage and screen;
if it's a good day,
and the old girl feels up
to a personal appearance.
Or she doesn't have an appointment
at the clinic.

Every once in a while
you can see him,
that leatherman
with the twilight-piercing eyes,
the solid new-concrete body.
He scared the hell out of you
three years ago,
but now he has a cane,
and his stories tend to trail
off. . .

The talk is quite polite,
as all share a proper lunch;
you can hear the snickering
of past-accused conquests,
of moments best left
between the pictorial
and the phone-sex ad.
("She's got her own stall
at the tea room near the
coffeepot on I-80.")
The gasping recriminations
filter and fall
to blend in with the laughter.

People are asked about,
half in memory,
half in a question
like a child worried about the monsters,
scared of the thunder.
News is passed back and forth
with the entree, and some men
move outside to smoke.

If you look really hard,
you'll see someone new,
watch his body tense
as he takes it all in;
the nameless recognition,
the caustic wondering,
the tabloid-layout
predictions of horror
that flash across his face
when he sits in the corner.

A weekly last supper;
the slight boost of basic
human recognition
brought to you
by the army of buddies,
and contestants of the new game
on the circuit.
The roulette-ridden warriors
of all the best tall tales,
given a break from the shuffle.

One of those days. . .

I have been feeling so run down lately, and I wonder if I am doing this to myself. I know that I have not been eating as "good" as I could (and I guess that could be because I have not been using weed that much), and I know that my little "under the table" jobs have been taking their toll, but I sincerely thought I had more energy than this. . .

Today, I really hate being HIV positive.