My youth came with dreams, those magic reveries that took me to manhood. They filled my boyish thoughts,day and night, with extraordinary visions of me as the leader of nations, of me as the warrior in battle, of me as the soldier in violent victory. The dreams came in swiftness and strength of body like the relentless champion in a blood streaked ring. There I was: fearless hunter, movie star, spy, explorer of distant plains, seducer of women with my easy smile. So how did I end up here, lost and forlorn on a barber's chair, threads of grey hair collected on a black tile floor?
I needed to talk. With desperate voice I called my friend Zigman Zibanski.
Zigman: You know why you are what you are. You know why you ended up the way you did, Tortelli.
Tortelli: So tell me why?
Zigman: I wont tell you what you already know.
So that was it. Zigman Zibanski left me with what I knew was true. I know why I ended up the way I did, but I can't say the truth. I can't speak to the lost years, the missed opportunities, the steps not taken, the dissolution of desire to be anything but common until desire came back to me too late. Until I saw a dream's grey hair swept up in a barber's swift broom.
Poetry Pantry #412
23 hours ago