February 13, 2008

Dead Man Walking

I see the man in me answering questions about success, pacing past ‘DON’T WALK’ signs, staring into the eyes of the mediocre. The man in me has a tone about him. He knows how to dress as the city asks of him – so good it is golden, so good the world could die in vain.

Two boys stand under a streetlight, in love although they’ll never know it. They know fragile bones are a medical liability and it all comes down to debt. Too easy to break, too expensive to repair so they substitute with plastic.

They don’t realize they are amidst a city; instead, only aware of the street lamp that illuminates their happiness, their inner core, their sexual fantasies. Fabric, like all barriers, will one day be ripped off, and so it all comes down to how the boys will react to their nakedness — free or head down in shame. Their fingers interlock, yet they scoff at the innocence they must settle for.

Dance, Kiss, I say. From a distance, I become angered at them just staring into one another’s eyes. Eyes hold no meaning and exude no personality. They are a product of being glamorized over the years. Staring into one’s eyes is the result of fearing contact, which is the only sincere way to know how a person reacts to tragedies or responds to beauty or how they are really a whole being rather than a mix of ingredients. Sex is not selfish.

It is a beautiful scene. I see the boys in them yet standing on the sidewalk from afar; I cannot locate the man in me. I’ve never been one for plastic.

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