who’s the man?

who’s the man?
who’s the man with the mouth and the teeth
and the individual bones bolted to the sinews and muscles and tongues and saliva
and the bit by bit robot walking four by four by the fires in the parking lots of the cities?

i’m the man
i’m the man with the big job and the big tie
and the big car and the gym babe and the box at the rugby game and an ex-springbok at my braai by the pool i bought in dubai from the sheikh i shook some dollars off

who’s the man?
who’s the man who knows everything about everything
and can be told nothing about nothing not a thing about a thing not to even think about the unthinkable which is to think that the thinking is the thing but that’s nothing

i’m the man
i’m the man with a gun in my hand about to pull the trigger of that gun in my hand and put a bullet or a string of bullets into the body of a man or a boy or a woman or a girl or a granny or a baby or a grandfather or a great-great-great-great grandfather who happened to not believe what i believe

who’s the man?
who’s the man who sits by the window sharpening a knife
and then when his wife comes in hides it under the pillow and pecks her on the cheek and holds her hand as they walk down the stairs to share a meal of pumpkin and chicken with their children preceded by a simple prayer of thanks?

i’m the man
i’m the man at the soup kitchen
but am i the man in line at the soup kitchen waiting for soup or am i the man with the ladle in hand handing out the soup to the people in line at the soup kitchen waiting for soup?

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