A Real Man


Joe’s pin-stripe suit
fits well.
A fish hook and odd knots
attach to him, strings from above
cords made of
spider’s silk
some more philosophical
than physical.

He walks down the pavement for you
unaware of all his hullabaloo
on his suit, all those hooks and
sucker’s knots
from his ankles
arms and head
cords ascending to your eye.

Joe’s city background crumples
until he walks on faded parchment
like a counterfeit da Vinci sketch
no longer just your Joe, he’s
inevitable and inspired.

Joe’s briefcase opens,
spills out oceans
of sand
dust bowls
famines and howls.

All this
while the parchment is lit.
The Promethean spark
providing the flame
for the silent self (immolation)
Joe was destined to.







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