Because he is too tender to post.
His feet. He lacks the rock or bronze
required for signs. It is also his
quick blood, or no. He brings too
much in his briefcase. Every time
the ground shakes, his asshole puckers.
A man is too shy to question his own
bones, and too timid to stand alone
forever. His is a world of chunky
moments -- time is all glued together.
He cannot turn one page at a time,
cannot take one bite at a time.
Stillness eludes him, replaced instead
by an encyclopedia of tits and ass.
He never closes his eyes -- the sun
holds him prisoner -- leads him by
the balls to the end. A man is not
a landmark, because he is a clown,
slowly decapitating himself with his own dick.