Sunday, February 24, 2002

he who squats firm while others weep forgiveness

he perches on one foot
hands held in fists, out at his sides
one leg raised straight ahead

cut-off jeans
a running shirt tucked in
Adidas gym bag, browned with age

he squats in the corner
straining against himself
and the judgement of others

his hair is patchy
cut with a bowl around his head
his weight held on a skinny frame


over and again he stumbles as his balance fails
the tendons in his legs strain
pain shoots into his face
sometimes he falls, but he is never discouraged

all of his worth falls with him onto the ground
but again he tries, squatting behind a car
he won't stop even as they laugh
his running shoes pointing to the sky

his death will end western civilization
its wake will be disastrous to many like him
who, pining for meaning, seek physical transcendence
and the immortality of their flesh, disintegrating

he is the fetish i wish that i had
grasping at my own boundaries, marginal
caring about something as much as him
derided and damaged, he sits outside my window