Back home,
There is a boy
With red hair, freckles,
And eyes the shade of blue
His mother calls "lady killers."
He's colorblind;
At least enough to believe
In jellyfish.
His father builds houses
With a rib-less heart
The boy calls home.
His mother,
Sews trust with her spine.
And thirty years later
They still find love
In the lonely isles of
The local Laneco.
His teacher says
He needs a pen pal,
So after school
He writes to me:
"Hi, how are you."
"I'm fine, thanks, and you?"
And then he asks me
What it's like to be
"Grown up"
And just how many
Stars I've scarred
With nothing but the rusty
Edge of my name.
So I fold the
Envelope of this
Crinkled heart into a letter
Of tattered Bibles
From hotel drawers of
Lost loves and dead friends
And find the courage
To tell him what
Being a man means.
I tell him:
We call it growing up
Because boulders
Always roll down.
It's refusing CPR
For every time you drown
In your own pride.
It's loving a girl
For every time she tried.
Tried to
Convince your tunnel vision
That her body is not a cave.
That respecting a woman
Is more important
Than how well you pave
Your parking lot heart.
Shallow like a baking pan.
This is an apology.
For every man
Who ever thought a woman's body
Is the only temple worth praying to.
Making four leaf clovers
From petals of roses
Trying to get lucky.
I know it's not lovely,
To kiss someone who
Is so constantly
Full of *******.
And I'll admit it.
I'm not yet
Where I need to be
But I thank God
That I'm no longer
Where I use to
See I'm used to
Smoking way too many
*** scenes to know that
There is not enough
Alcohol in the world
To ever clear my mind.
And I have caused way
Too many Prozac commercials
To know that there is
No effective dosage
For this disorder
Of indecency.
To know that it is
No measure of good health
To be well adjusted
To a sick society
Of mechanical men
Always worried about
Who and when they're going
To plug into.
So I tell him:
You are not a robot,
A computer, or a program.
And your choices are the only
Thing that will ever make you a man.
So strap up your boots,
Bury the ashes,
Shake the dust,
And dandelion your
Heart in every
Direction of home.
But most importantly,
Go easy on the ladies;
Because
The older I get and
More I learn about myself
The more I'm writing
With my eraser
Than with anything else.
Thanks to Anis Mojgani, Andrea Gibson, and Krishnamurti.
