A GOOD MAN - PART TWO

What’s defeat?

Now, if you’ve got to sink that shit, you’ve got to sink this one too: What’s winning? I guess that could leave you with a fleshy third – Where’d you place what I did? Well, let me tell you something, the bastard was only down on his knees, I’ve been in deeper shit and I mean shit, rolling in shit, face-down in shit, licking shoes clean of shit and that’s a heck of a pair of shitty shoes I’m talking about. And you think that’s low? No. Low’s only when you dig it, when you eat into it. I knew I wouldn’t spare every single of those pairs of shoes that I’ve shined before and I knew that this shining was just a part of it, a part of seeing a head on the ground or a face made plane or a greasy heart that I’d eventually put a squeeze on. And you know what? I remember my shoes. I’m the footwear man.

So what’s there in a name, right? Everything. Everything, that is, if you’re me and if you’ve really got no wax at Tussaud’s, no square jaw, wavy blonde, gold-plated teeth or tattooed lower back. Everything, if a snap’s enough to snap him back and get him burned with his Polaroid. Everything, if that’s been all that’s ever worked out, everything, if that’s what your kids need to live without.

Everything – That’s what my name means to me.

There’s this kind, your kind, who need to be there to be there, you know, menials, and you’ve got your tag and that’s just a tag, it’s just meant to hold the alphabets next to the display cage and if you’re gone, then they’d just scrape the shit, pull the tag off and stick the next sucker that surfaces. But, I’m not my tag. The tag’s me and that’s all there is and I don’t need me for my sake; I don’t need you either.

‘Joel’.

Maybe your dictionary could say it better, but I’d say it right: This isn’t winning. The knees hitting the ground, no that’s not winning, that’s consolation. I’m missing the real deal here and that’s what I want you to see, to think about why this man who’s been hell bent on marking existence to whim suddenly got his wet-suit out in the sun, and that leads to think if I am, for real, doing what I don’t want to do. Am I standing against myself, is there the slightest chance of that absurdity to ever show its face, because heck I’ll never show you mine, will I?

I see their point, never said I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean giving in, I’m never giving in. I’m giving him his closure and I’m giving myself my count. Bullshit though, this change of name, the action hero loves the bruise. And my nostalgia is but right now and I guess I’d like some memories back, but this time I guess I’d need a fast-forward because I find that the anonymity could kill me.

And of all things, I can’t let him have that.