A Good Man

Thoughts from an abandoned boy.


He couldn’t say the good man never faulted,

For from age young he saw,

A man has not lived who made no mistake.

And as he grew alone mistakes of his own were made.

And he came to know a good man was not one who never sinned,

Though good men do still try…

No, a good man was one who owned his every decision,

Choices good;

The ones that sent thriving roots deep into the ground,

The ones that freshened souls around as warm winds,

Or that clung to life like water does down the face.

And even and also the failed…

The limp decisions that crawled out with no spine,

The ones with clawed flesh and soil still under their nails,

The ones that fell backward into the abyss,

Looking only into themselves as they tumbled.

The good man stood up and claimed them all.

They were not him, but they were his.

It was almost never on his own volition,

Usually it was forced by the Love,

The human web,

Which at its best immolated him by truth,

Called out those word from their hiding.

Sometimes it felt like tethered organs pulled through his teeth,

Even just to admit to himself.

There were those days when his image in the mirror wouldn’t even look back at him.

But most days, most times it was as simple as saying sorry,

And because his mother fucker,

The one who fucked his mother and forced his being,

Never able to own his decision,

Or the ensuing consequences,

That spinning zygote that came to life against his wishes,

Dividing again,

And again,

Until his boy’s malformed heart gained dimension,

It began to beat;

And the lifeblood flowed to the mind that would one day understand,

That he was someone’s blunder,

And it pumped seeping emotions producing questions,

Ending in a well of tears,

That then dried up.

Perhaps his only greater desire than to hear his dad say sorry,

Was just to hear him admit that he had made him.

But instead this father’s feet trumped his mind and they ran,

And every step left his manhood farther behind,

That father, that motherfucker never did say,

Sorry.

And so that little boy,

He learned the humble quiver,

His voice made when his words trembled out of their hiding place in his heart.

He befriended the tremble,

And trained his mind to sense its frequency,

And his heart to wrap itself in the awkward pain,

Of saying sorry.

Knowing each time he did,

He journeyed with the good men,

The ones who lived free.

For the pride of man digs deep the hole to burry its wrongs.

Entangled words and feelings are driven deeper,

Pulled downward by the anchor of shame.

Until they are lost, impossible to resurrect,

And with it your own self knowing.

For the mired hand almost never reaches back into the black tar.

So my son let admittance flow across your tongue like a naked dancer in rain,

Free and raw and fearing not,

Only knowing the rain will make you clean.

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