I wanted to be either the first man, unashamed of his nakedness,
or the angel sent down to test the will of man.
Take my scrawny youth, the mischief I made, the way
I faced my God down daily. He made me a slab of clay,
and I could be molded, kneaded, pushed through a Fun Factory™.
I gave myself to a lot of men. It was okay. I was okay. & them.
It happened when the canneries shut down.
The vats were finally hosed, the pressure valves
turned off and rolls of unused labels got warehoused.
That’s when the fellows packed it in.
And discontent was discontent to the power of ten.
Because I was a minor then, my record’s sealed.
Besides, who would want to know my shady ways,
except projectionists who caught me in their beams,
the lanky escapees who worked the dime toss at the fair,
or pulled the saddle ponies,
demonstrated the strongest knife. Who made their way
to the wood that constellated the valley. Oh, the many,
many balls a single man could juggle then.
And I would ask “are you my angel?” (I got that from a book)
((I was so unoriginal. They called me “Unoriginal Sin”))
The humor of it all fell flat. Humor does that.
S.O.S./Fire in the Sky and Funkytown. The rapture happened.
Exactly who most people wouldn’t expect:
I’d rather withhold names. Besides, you’d read the entire list
and never know the sass and grace of them.
Ladies from the D Street storefronts, boys from fields,
the pickers, gleaners, lifters, lumpers, men who shot cogged dice,
women on foodstamps, kids who got blown, who were blown to bits,
the wizened gents, dramatic boys who knew a man Bojangles
and they’d dance a lick. The quarterback. Somebody’s ex.
As long as there is room, why not let all the people in?
There’d be no heartache then.
We will outlast this time, my friends.
When I am taken o when I am taken o when I am taken