I wore my broken heart the way a dog wore its collar. I was owned but I had no master. I pumped iron every other day. It made me jacked and feel taller. Not the soft punk I had been from the wrong neighborhood where like me the houses on the street were decent but smaller. My SATs did not reflect how smart I was but I was trapped by mediocre scores. Had I been a giant with high verbals and high mathematics I could have gone to Harvard. Instead I’m bald and pushing 60 in yoga pants. But, you know, a broken heart is the way to get ‘em. Soft and gentle, yeah, that’s me: Billy. Been stepped on, stepped over, pissed on, and pissed over all my life. It’s been a dozen times. And women, the ones who got stepped on and pissed on, they’re the ones to fall for me like I’m Tom Cruise or some knock-out celebrity. They feel sorry for not who I am but for who I am not. Though I’m not too old to like Radiohead or PJ Harvey. As a CSW, I do good for people. In a coupla more years I’ll be retired. But I still don’t know who the fuck I am. I’m intelligent, sensitive, and kind—until I get pushed into a corner, until you make me feel my open broken heart has been taken advantage of. Then, I know, I become that little pit bull, you know, the neglected, overlooked, looked past one that was feeding on leftover rats on the wrong side of the track. So, sure, I’m sentimental and mixed up with some bitterish chocolate chips. Had I become William, or even Will, I might have had a kid or even a wife. I’m just afraid someone’s gonna clip me with a leash and take me for another walk.
(read more @ egbertstarr.com)