101 Ways to Humiliate a Man by Saul Gray-Hildenbrand
i’m conforming to escapism and sticking to the gray flannel suit
my dreams are many and my reality is few
and the heat of 200 degrees radiates my pulse
as sweat falls upon the desert floor
and forms puddles of diligence
that kidnap malpractice toads and amputated flamingoes
and i’m left reminding myself that Jiffy Pop ain’t for everybody
then i look down at my palms and see that those kernels have melted
and now i’m stuck with a mountain of sodium in hand and a hill to climb
up with vibrations in arm
but i’ll invent my recovery
in time might repent my discovery
and in foresight my hindsight will smother me
and i’ll be left carrying my future on broken backs
attached to firmly fastened sacks of custom fitted rope
that although comfortable, can not sail or saturate the sea
but never mind that cause i’m stuck on the land dying intravenously
my heart beats to convulsions induced by overdoses of rosebuds
with nothing but a touch of evil to keep me hanging on
so now i grasp whispers close fisted, open minded, far fetched but too
close for comfort
and my screams beckon echoes to break imitation
reminding them that an empty park bench is the highest form of flattery
now i flatline and wonder where have i left my stretch marks
and the sheep are counting backwards, oh how sad when winter runs out
of wool
will they realize i’m gone? i never realized i was there
but now i’m here, wishing to know the way her bosom bellowed out my
pain
and broke the chaos with a simple “hello”
never living to hear a last goodbye
never built the bones to fall in domino theory
but the fate fits just the same, slowly crumbling
decomposing ashes to smolder residual checks written out for soap
a lonely, dirty man means nothing to the world
and so he looks for escape and soon the world means nothing
and he’s left detached, lifeless, full of despair, mute
body lowered to the coffin, sticking to that gray flannel suit
Her Two Cents
“The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains.” ― Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
