That Beautiful Man

       He was born on a waste site for slag, misshapen skull carved from a wound-encrusted, fecund womb. By day two he was handling anything and everything like a greasy-haired, dirty-digited ragamuffin scamp let out of the orphanage for a weekend. Grappling his testicles or perhaps an orb-like structure around the pelvic region approximating the size of the common cantaloupe, turning in the streets to eyeball all of the ladies, to ogle elderly ass outside of the neighborhood group home, maneuvering his facial muscles in such a way as to suggest he might be trying to mouth a pea resting betwixt someone's gluteal cleft. Using a urinal cake culled from a convenience store lavatory as deodorant. Clad in a soot-covered, stool-scented toga, donning a single moccasin, chugging Max Ice tallboys or jars of formaldehyde by the dumpsters, attempting to comprehend the lifeless pay phone, the child's rendering of a floppy-eared bunny that looks astonishingly like a pair of ovaries. Screaming at the youth in the morning- "What are you going to learn in school today, huh?! Aphrodisiatics? Coprophagiola? Necromance-mectomies? Ha!" saving his sob stories for the adults- "I'm sick in the head. And the only way they'll let me back into the hospital is if I get wasted." Rubbing his feet on the curb, kicking a discarded bra across the boulevard, dicking his fist in a burnt out automobile. Watching the douche bags performing mini-bike tricks in the square- silly 'staches painting upper lips- playing Frisbee in the dog shit filled park. Leering at the couples as they caress each other's buttocks, as they engage in that eternal struggle to assign some importance to their existences. For though he may appear to be that gray-faced specter, that distorted figure of dreams, unlike most he could never be accused of sacrificing his principles or his convictions.