He is
spewing paradox and
paradigm with the
accuracy of a blind
driver's ed. instructor.

His soap box is
well worn, shining
from the scuff of
sage work boots.

Heaving it towards the sun
for the kids to see,
in the park,
by the fountain.

In the whore houses and
boarding houses where his
discarded belongings still
lie.

He is bloated from the
intensity, drawn from
the clouds
of feigned passion.

Arguing for the destruction
of the TV,
then crying quietly;
watching on the couch,
ridged dark-pink upholstery
leaving dents in his skin.

"I CONTAIN VOLUMES!"
screeches from his
whiskey torn throat as the
last of those books
are thrown up on the bar.

An ivory god
with a plastic pedestal,
he sits loudly teetering in the
brew pubs and the laundry mats.

Flipping a hard fist in the air
he denounces trailers, waiting
to go home to his

They got theirs, he's still
waiting for his

When he does, though...

He'll build an iron tower
by the highway,
razor wire cutting through
the carapace of those who
would disturb his azaleas,
shooting transients and
welfare mothers.

He'll laugh as if the Legos
that constructed his life made
the whole damn thing possible,
bouncing his dominion down
the sidewalk
like a super ball.

Women on a key chain.
Drugs in an oil tanker.

He'll take that pocket
of himself that screams against
the pain of millions
and leave it in the
6 by 6 room at
his parent's
house,
in his old dresser
in his old home town,

Where he dreamed of being
a warrior and became
a joke.