The Howling

On this Godforsaken land of men
I waited for a man —
Not a caricature
Not calm, perfect or radiant —
But broken, fucked up
Restless, awakened —
A real and full man

Unbound, wild, untamed —
Screaming, howling, swearing
Drunk in a gutter —
Roaring just the same
Visceral, scathing, actual —
Tearing with his hands
As much cutting
With his words

One who wandered, journeyed, fought
Deep inside — facing his demons
Shaking the chains
That shackled his heart
Beaten, defeated, blood-soaked
Scarred to the bone —
And yet unbowed

No shadow, no myth —
Sucking in all life with each breath
Watching it drip out of his pores
A man who ate the world and shat it out —
Pissing, grieving, thrashing —
Rooted in earth, his own

Not teaching, not preaching
Not on cushion or chair —
But walking, steeped in muck
Covered in dust, inscribing
With each step
A word

Whole and unashamed
Done with selling
Showing, posing

A man who spoke all
That was in his heart —
For none other
But himself

Lifetimes I waited
And then —
I stopped

For that man
Could be none
But I