A man is a hollow thing that goes to a grave
A man is a hollow thing that
goes to a grave. His
middle is a scarp of dank
rooms that no longer connect. The
feeling of being a man is having
nowhere to turn. A
man is a hollow thing that goes to a grave.
A man is a hollow thing that
waits for a bus. He gets
high and puts on sunglasses and hopes
nobody will see him. He’s
going to a town where they
break his back for pennies. A
man is a hollow thing that waits for a bus.
A boy is not a hollow thing. He’s got
guts and verve just like
any sensible person. But
laughing is girly and
kindness is queer. A
boy is a thing that gets scooped out.
A man is a hollow thing
haunted by a father. A
ghost himself treading on crocheted eggshells,
made an ass by the haint of his own. The
primordial father had one bad Tuesday,
but was never allowed to cry. A
man is a hollow thing haunted by a father.
How do I know I’m a man?
My utter uselessness makes me
wish I were dead.
A man is a hollow thing that goes to a grave.
