Somebody must have treated you real mean before you became a man.
You must’ve painted your pain into the portrait of a man big and brawny with a voice that speaks like a dirty carburetor and tosses its fumes with the fury of a vintage V8. Fast and far your reckless words can be flung.
This imaginary man grew up inside his gilt-framed self portrait and inspired you to adopt your dead image of an adult in a future that hasn’t existed yet.
You were dead before you lived in the world of adults.
But you didn’t know you were a frozen corpse of pain and fear.
You just kept on firing your words like bullets – to sting, to injure, to kill the spirit of each person who looked like your enemy.
And enemies were aplenty because nearly every face wore the mask of your childhood tormentor.
Somebody hurt you bad – and – all you know now is hurt-back.
If only you knew how invisible you are.
How your circulatory system of pain is X-rayed and transmitted to those who can see.
And those who can see, do not fear you. For that, you hate them most of all.
You slander and libel those with wisdom, because you fear their power.
You know their power is quiet and invisible and that it will win – always – because it touches eternity.
And you . . . you will only die in loud, writhing pain.
While a multitude of your admirers – your dark disciples – will carry on your gospel of hidden pain.
They will spread your disease until one day when one person wakes up and says: “I see inside my skin. I name my pain. I raise my white flag and walk away.”
The husk of a man is then seen crossing the khaki desert. As his bully-boy viscera crumbles into a pile of dry dust.
And so . . . one-by-one, the soldiers of hurt fall.