if there are men, then there is also the man he reads henry miller and lies belly up in the salty water trying to ignore the pleads of the sun propheteering ministers and the chosen reincarnations some are in awe, but most simply buy the endorsed shoes lower their voices, yielding a new intonation But he stands alone. masturbating slowly to black and white pictures hung on walls concentrating on the symmetrical the contours of the motionless being careful not to be hypnotized by the ghosts he is a man, the man wearing an invisible black cloak sitting alone in a coffee shop while groups of weak women ponder loneliness, and again love because love still seems a tangible paradise But he is still the man. self-made, but often hung-up on politeness and modesty give him the chance to walk on water and he will just swim, inviting you in, playfully splashing only to bore of games, leaving a mark But if he is still the man. and in your home, the towels are still wet but the sweat has not yet penetrated pull out your henry miller, and strike the long, precious conversation going unnoticed into the sunset for these are two