This Man I Saw

so...who's the pauper and who's the prince?
I know, it's Christmas -
hence
the kingdom's in our midst, I said.

I said it all.
I walked, falling off
his scizophrenic preaching,
"I know what's it's like," he said.

"My brother and his masters," he didn't tremble
at anyone's thought, thimble, or thumb biting potential

"He's got a masters in it,"
but who's master said it?

I said it...
all.

Fall from his inconvience (I'm telling you),
he was a grievious
embarassing babbler,
over his glasses, talking to no one
out the door, looking rather...fine.

and you will say, "I hated him,"
and I will say, "I hated myself"
at this perpendicular angle of my seat
against this
concretefloor of a painter's
door

I cocked your mouth and shot it right at him
if he wouldn't have ducked over his glasses

this place has never seen
the vertigo of my mind,
I gleened, stood horizontally in the presence
of a ghost of his kind.

The painting washed away
with halls of decking,
and the door closed,
he and his glasses left (they were the big kind, the ones from the 80's)

I wanted him to be a prince,
his bags and his voice void of the price of the praises men
said,

"He is a king."