Papier-mâché man
Alone With St. Joseph
Papier-mâché man
Every night the sun attends its own funeral.
Papier-mâché man— screaming at midnight on a public telephone, clawing inside his pocket for a coin that isn’t there, looking out of the booth wondering how much youth he has left.
Days slowly die, like the sparrow egg you found underneath our favorite oak tree. Its pale shell— an afterthought of heat lightning.
Sinking his teeth deep, deep— into the hedonistic fantasy of the man he isn’t, but wishes to be.
Every time I think about failure, I picture the crib in my toolshed; the opportunities we could have given it.
Giovanni Mangiante
Papier-mâché man— my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Papier-mâché man— my hair, my pain, my smile. Papier-mâché man— easily made, easily broken.
18
John Leonard
You buried it in the dirt and said to me; The earth will make a perfect mother. (Silence and a weakly nurtured glance)
Every time you think about me, you picture sweat dripping into the ocean, and you wonder why I still visit that tiny grave for no apparent reason.