For seven hours, I brownly

Nestled in the numbness of my

Mind, listening to the rib-booming

Voice of Bert’s Brother.

He said words I

Should have written down,

And would have,

Had I trusted my meddling ink

To truly translate

The woolen soul of that

Granite boy.

The clear inquiry in his face

Betrayed the curious spirit

Of something falconlike;

Something that pecks

At your eyes (simply because

They shine) and does so

Not meaning any harm,

But blinds you nonetheless…

This fresh prophet flew

From the City of Angels

To lace his young shoes

Among learned men;

Yet, he wouldn’t listen when

They told him he was great,

And instead, dared them to

Show him a man who was not.