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 screechUnlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    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.