A man is a hollow thing that goes to a grave

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.

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