A boy spends half his life fighting

  to find what makes a man,

  the other half selling it.

  He’s wasting.

  Big MAN.

  Small MAN.

  Fat MAN.

  Skinny MAN.

  Skin and Bones; Lipids and Sarcomeres.

  All red and black inside.

  And the harpies, the kickers, the needy of life

  with their half-made threats and empty anguish

  broken, ragged nails screech

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  like chalk on steel streets.

  Crawling through his past,

  slinking between alleys and floating behind

  out of sight,

  His flitting shadows

  seek stories that match

  their smiles, tight,

  with false teeth gleaming Fool’s

  Gold hidden to Him desirous

  Of life, liberty, and love.

  Hunted with knives

  between alleys,

  caught with nooses

  tied around his neck,

  dragged to zoos

  where he roars and rages like the starving lion, unknowing

  that he’s not Samson,

  though his hair’s grown and the

  neon proclaims him Lord, the exotic man-eating monster,

  cowering in his corner.

  He is the Old Maid’s washcloth.

  When he rasps, hope flees and withered heart

  rattles between his ribs

  excised, packaged and sent to the fires.

  Steel snakes bite wrists,

  whipped till blood sobs.

  Scabs and scars weeping

  crown his skull.

  Hung by rope.

  Feet wave in air.

  Salvation found in accepting pain.