He never was
present, never thought he took part. He was always distant and passing through
on his way to some undefined destination. He was one of the actors, but stood a
ways back, off to one side, an observer. More so, when he was fighting or pretending
to make love. The closer to the action the more remote he became. All became a
blank, unthinking blackness that did not restrict his hitting out.
His thoughts
were bar room brawlers who calmly without verbal threats surprised with fist the
all talkers. “What did I do,” the fools demanded as they were dragged by foot
or by the scuff of neck out doors into graveled back lots. “What did I do,”
they begged to know as hypocritical mouths were bloodied and noses twisted out
of joint.
Can he
make up for past neglects? He knows to repent fully will be impossible, but he
will confess. He believes public confessions are for weaker men, but decides his
confessions can hide in fictitious truth.
Small
boy, teenage, and recent dreams haunt him. They are unwelcomed guest who have
stayed too long. Before dawn, a keyboard
exorcises old and new torments. Fiction disguises the most unforgiving events. Humor
lightens the darkest truths. The pronoun he hides the truth of the worse of
him.
