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Poems/Moans/Groans
For The Lost And Misconnected
Sal Morano
The Broken People
"When you were but a child a part of you was destroyed,
Your heart was wrenched from your chest
And your insides were cut up into a hundred little pieces."
We are the broken people,
We are the ones who were damaged inside,
We are the lonely people,
We are the ones who somehow stayed alive
After the beating, the raping, the mutilation and
Soul murder.
We are the unwanted, the empty of spirit.
We are chameleons,
Becoming what we see, watch, hear - on the outside.
We are crushed within.
We are damaged goods
That can no longer be repaired
With glue or cement or a new paint job.
We are the lost, the hopeless,
We are the travellers through hell,
Carrying disease and hurt and the smell
Of death everywhere we go.
What has life become
When we can no longer eat, drink and love
Like normal, healthy people?
We are the outsiders.
We are the broken people
And each night cry out in anguish
For an end to our pain -
"Oh God, my God,
If there is a God, oh God, please help me!"
Copyright 1992 by Sal Morano
Vehicle Out of Control
"Let me out!" he cried.
"Let me out!" he cried.
"Let me out and free my soul!
I'll be destroyed
if I don't escape
This vehicle out of control!"
Cruising along in third gear,
Sometimes seeming to have
A life of its own,
Sometimes seeming like
some sinister snake
On quiet surface roads --
A man behind the wheel,
A man who wasn't whole,
A man who saw his vehicle
Was totally out of control.
"Let's see this nightmare through!"
He whispered in my ear.
"This is what it's like!" he said.
In his eye there was a tear.
Real people became images
In a lost boy's crazy dream,
And then I saw, that all along,
He was not what he had seemed.
"Let me out!" he cried.
"Let me out!" he cried.
"Let me out and free my soul!
I'll be destroyed
if I don't escape
This vehicle out of control!"
Copyright 1986 by Sal Morano
(accepted for publication in "Our Journey," Portland, Oregon,
date to be determined)
I Wanted to Marry Marilyn Monroe
When I was but a boy of six
I wanted to marry Marilyn Monroe.
I wanted to pull her to me
Right out of the pages of Life Magazine -
And become fully absorbed
In her blondness, her whiteness,
Her laughter and her heat.
Yes.
I really did desire to disappear
Into the flesh of my goddess,
Marilyn Monroe,
And to escape with her
To a place so secret
No photographers, reporters or
Gossip columnists could ever find us,
Where Mom and Dad could not find us,
Where the nuns at school could not find us,
Where God himself in all his
Charleton Heston-like thunder and lightning
Could not find us,
And where I would fly forevermore
In unending joy and excitement.
Yes! To go far far far away
To a planet made up of brightness and dream,
A world composed of absolutely nothing
But fun and games and a never-dying
Marilyn Monroe.
Copyright 1992 by Sal Morano
November, 1986
I drive down the dark and lonely streets of Long Beach
Long after I should have been home in bed
Resting from a rough day at the office
Where I shuffle papers stamp tickets
Initial forms and all that junk
And I'm going for it
After six u-turns on PCH
And going around three blocks twice
I'm sick of it
Going for it
And the bullets at home beckon me
A beautiful gun .38 Special
Nice healthy beautiful bullets smooth metal cold steel
Just one That's all it takes
I fondle a round between thumb and fingers
And feel power finality
Stand the bullet on its rear end
Think of things that might have been Ponder what could be
Roaming the streets like this ... Anaheim PCH Magnolia
The Traffic Circle
Roaming the streets like this
Looking for the Big Fix The fix to fix it all
When all it would take would be
One single bullet
And a period could be added to the sentence of my life
The Big Fix wasn't there The search for gold
Ends in nothing
The big black hole will suck you in
The beautiful round become a big bad bloody bullet
And the answer to the endless wandering
The senseless u-turns the peering out the window
The counting of cash on cold winter nights
The period to the sentence of my life
The exclamation point to a wrong turn
Or just a trio of periods ... to an unfinished story
Copyright 1986 by Sal Morano
You Were in the Way
When I slept with you back in 1986,
I was, in fact, not with you
But in bed with Susan, a classmate in broadcasting school.
Well, that's not really the whole truth.
For when I slept with you back then,
I was also doing it to Linda, a hooker I knew in Long Beach,
And I was even making it with Bo Derek and Kirstie Ally
And that one comedienne from the old Second City TV show.
Several centerfolds from old issues of Club, Velvet and Penthouse
Somehow made their way between us,
And I travelled to times past
And wished to drown myself in another realm.
It's astounding how many people can cram themselves
Onto one bed, into one head.
Why were you there? Did you love me or something?
I shouted Susan's name - oh Susan Susan Susan
(though all the while, I whispered yours)
And I ask myself now, why the hell were you there?
What the hell was I doing with you there?
You were in the way.
You could have been anyone.
I suppose anyone would have done.
It just happened to be you.
This I know: Susan and Linda and Bo and Kirstie and the SCTV comedienne and the
centerfolds and the center for the Cal State Long Beach women's basketball team and the
personnel secretary at my old job with the answering machine company and that one woman
who was a lush, who I had met in a warehouse at American Honda ...
They were not only there,
They were alive and well and living in my head
While I was in your body,
And they had power - such power! - over me
While you were there beneath me.
Tell me, why were you there, back in 1986?
You were in the way.
And while you're at it, maybe you can tell me this:
Why was I there?
Or was I?
Copyright 1992 by Sal Morano
The Altar of God, Part I
Introibo ad altare Dei,
Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.
I will go to the altar of God,
To God who gives joy to my youth.
"Many are called but few are chosen."
You will help save souls, and you will convert pagans.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
You will join the ranks of the pure of heart
And be canonized into sainthood
To enter the Holy of Holies.
Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It has been one week since my last confession.
Christe eleison! Christe eleison! Christe eleison!
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It has been three days since my last confession,
And these are my sins: I had impure thoughts during Mass,
I made too much noise at study period,
I looked at bad pictures.
Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It has been one day since my last confession.
I disobeyed my teachers, I cheated during an Algebra test.
I masturbated twice, once after a bad basketball game
and then when I couldn't sleep at night because I was afraid
of having nightmares.
Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst come to me,
But only say the word and my soul shall be healed.
Father, I have sinned:
I told the woman I was no good, I told her to step on me,
To spit on me, to humiliate me -- my face, my race, and everything about me,
And I gave her the rent money, the car payment money,
My peace of mind and my soul.
Father, I have sinned!
Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!
Why was that woman pushed out of the car on Santa Monica Boulevard?
Can someone give me an answer?
Father, I have sinned.
Why did they stab her and leave her to bleed, to die at three o'clock in the morning?
Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee.
I crawled with worms, I writhed with snakes,
I hid myself from your embrace.
The party's over.
They promised, they promised,
They promised music and life and laughter and everlasting orgies.
Till death do us part.
Do you take this perfect woman to be yours forever and ever
Through darkness and pain, through terror and distress?
(Sing) Libera me, Domine, e porta inferis.
Deliver me, oh Lord, from the gates of hell.
And the Circle Massage shall be no more.
And Barbara is probably retired now, a wife perhaps,
Perhaps a mother.
Perhaps a mother with two kids and an abusive, alcoholic husband who hits her when she
won't do the song and dance routine.
Libera me, Domine!
The party is over. Do you hear me?
You will save souls for God.
Your name means savior of the world ... and I saw an angel with a flaming sword, soaring
through the heavens high above Wilmington, California.
Introibo ad altare Dei, ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.
I will go to the altar of God, to God who gives joy to my youth.
What are you -- stupid? What are you -- crazy?
Rosa - rosae - rosae - rosam - rosa - rosa.
Don't show me that picture -- it gives me temptations.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Bundy.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Gacy.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Chapman.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Berkowitz.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Bianchi.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Lecter.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Ramirez.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Dahmer.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not Hinkley.
I fear the thoughts ... I am not me, I am not me, I am not me.
Dominus vobiscum ... Et cum spiritu tuo.
And seventh and eighth grade girls sang,
"Et cum spir-i-chu-chuaaaaaaaa!"
I opened the wrong door in the city of Lennox
And watched the dancing queen swaying back and forth languidly
For an old man with a cigar in his mouth, who clapped weakly, politely, and tossed dollar
bills onto the stage.
The party is over. Do you read?
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem
En mi coraz�n y en mi alma.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned -
I didn't notice the pictures of starving families in Ethiopia.
I was too busy beating off in an underground garage in Hollywood
With a street whore watching 'cause she could not keep me excited
And was not worth a damn being with, not worth fifty dollars for a "Hurry-hurry"
job that I could do much better myself.
Father, I have sinned.
Lord, I am not worthy.
Wala ng pag-asa. Wala ng tutulong.
Wala ng makakatulong sa akin.
Lord, I am not worthy.
Christ, I am not worthy.
Lord, I am not worthy.
And the Circle Massage was no more.
And the hundred and one street walkers on PCH and Sunset, on Anaheim, Harbor and Hollywood
Boulevards
Emerge like ghosts in the night,
Then evaporate under the morning sun,
Leaving scars on the spirit
Like dried vomit on a
city sidewalk.
Queen of Lust, Goddess of the forever fleeting moment,
Take me, hide me, cover me, save me!
Sing me a song, oh Daughter of the Night,
As my penis searches for calm behind the curtains of your power.
And when all is done, please lull me to sleep
Amidst the exploding shrapnel of broken dreams.
You promised me life ... for the price of two bags of heroin.
You
lied
to me.
I see your face in liquor stores, I touch your face,
Wanting more. Through the midnight hour, more-more-more!
To you I sold my soul.
A thousand U-turns, alleys, parking lots, book stores, movie theaters.
A thousand miles, a thousand hurts, a thousand aches, a thousand deaths.
Party hearty. Party on. Till death do us part.
Requiescat in pace.
"For the love of God!"
"Yes ... for the love of God!"
Estoy cansado. Estoy muy cansado.
Estoy perdido. Ayudame, por favor.
And you lie to me.
You always lie to me.
Ite, misa est.
Go.
The mass
is over.
Copyright 1992 by Sal Morano
The Altar of God, Part II
He started building an altar in Fountain Valley, and he continued
the work in Wilmington, California, an altar that was not completed until Long Beach in
the year 1988.
The altar was a futon that rose less than one foot above the thinly carpeted floor of a
$300 studio apartment on Medio Street,
A small, insignificant side street parallel to Ocean Boulevard, near downtown.
At night he offered himself to God - Abraham and Isaac in one body!
With arms outstretched and hands folded above his head, he prayed,
"God, I offer myself to Thee .... "
God, please kill me and do with me as Thou wilt.
"Not my will, but Thine be done."
And the thousand faces of lust banged loudly at his door,
Demanding satisfaction, screaming at him for more.
The beast from the depths had not been fed, they said.
He was dying, lying lifeless upon the shore.
And he said, "God grant me the serenity..."
Lust demanded more.
"God, I offer myself to Thee ..."
Lust was never satisfied.
Dying upon the shore, they said.
But he knew it was a lie.
Their promise of eternal ecstasy was nothing but a lie.
Their promise of painless oblivion was nothing but a lie.
Their promise of heaven on earth was nothing but a lie.
"God, I offer myself to Thee..."
He acquired strength from a man named Bill, and another named Bob,
Strength from an alcoholic janitor at the Port of Long Beach,
From an alcoholic struggling actor working at City Hall,
From an ex-Marine who worked as a tax accountant,
From an urban planner who reached out from Los Angeles,
then from Saudi Arabia,
From a tall black man who spoke softly and listened intently,
From a retired technical writer who personified intensity,
And from a Catholic priest who couldn't stay away from massage parlors.
"In the midnight hour, more-more-more!
With a rebel yell, she cries more-more-more!"
"God, I offer myself to Thee ...."
"God, grant me the serenity...."
And the desert wind blew hot and dry
and he thought of dried-up corpses lying on the sand.
Like what happened to Private Jason Rother whose skeleton was found
barely two miles from the main road;
Like Sylvia Mangos, a little girl kidnapped from a Yucca Valley Swap Meet
and later found dead and abandoned on the cruel desert floor.
Like the rock climber who collapsed from heat exhaustion and died at the
Joshua Tree National Monument.
Snakes and road runners, black night sky with meteors,
Daylight and blue, piercing blue sky such as he'd never seen in the city.
The morning news and 114 degrees of burning hot sun.
Living in the desert like a horse with no name.
"God, grant me the serenity ...."
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Waiting for someone to join him so they could have a meeting.
Waiting, reading, writing, sweating.
Waiting, reading, thinking, praying.
One month, two months, three months, more.
And they joined him for a short while,
And then they were no more,
Because he had to leave.
He prayed at his new home in an old part of town.
And he ran and he prayed while he ran and
He became Frank Shorter and Bill Rodgers,
He ran and he prayed in the midnight hour.
He became Alberto Salazar.
In his world, he won the Boston Marathon.
"God, I offer myself to Thee ...."
In his running he was Abraham and Isaac at the same time,
Offering his human sacrifice to God his Creator.
And he met his friends at St. Mary's Catholic Church, then
at the Behavioral Medicine Center: a couple of them landed in prison,
a couple of them died, another moved out of town.
But the church and the Medicine Center were like gardens, which
he and his friends watered and tended with their spirits, with their
hearts and with their souls.
And into the fertile earth of Redlands and Loma Linda
They brought their sadness, their pain, their loss, their despair,
And together they planted seeds of hope which grew into
delicate little saplings, then trees,
And they met week after week after week after week, then
Month after month after month after month,
And year after year after year after year,
And the trees reached up towards the sky, with strong trunks,
Long branches, healthy fruit, reflecting the very glory of God.
And they remain, rooted in the despair and loneliness such
as few ever experience, rooted in death and desperation,
in utter, total defeat and nothingness.
From the seeds of surrender arise true miracles: God raising the dead!
Indeed, in surrender there is victory.
In surrender, there is victory over lust.
"God, I offer myself to Thee...."
Into Riverside they carry their message.
Into Corona, Temecula and Chino.
In surrender there is victory.
Naysayer, open your eyes: There IS victory over lust!
Copyright 1998 by Sal Morano
When White Woman was God
Once upon a time White Woman was God/not a goddess/as someone else
might say/but God/as in salvation/as in worship/as in center and purpose and meaning of
life/oh God my God/for me White Woman was God/In the first year longing for God/oh God my
God/please fill the void within me/I long to be with you/oh God/in your short skirt and
long blonde hair and your promise of everlasting life in a state of oblivion.
In the second year/searching for my God/at the office/in the warehouse/in church/on
college campuses/at B. Dalton bookstores/ libraries/parking lots/restaurants/movie theater
lobbies/political demonstrations/adult bookstores and porno shops/on the street/in the
mall/looking/searching/trying to locate my God.
In the third year White Woman was still God/now downing Bloody Marys/Pi�a Coladas/Sex on
the Beach and Long Island ice teas/and snorting coke in cheap motels.
In the fourth year/shooting up at the College Inn and picking up tricks along Pacific
Coast Highway/"Whatsa matter?" God asked/"Too much for the kid to
handle?"/And God's eyes glazed over/eyelids drooping and a warm glow swooping over
her whole body/and God later calling on the telephone for money to pay for methadone and
begging for just forty dollars please/"I'll pay you back/I have some jewelry you can
keep till I pay you back/you know where I live"/Yes God/I sure do know where you
live/I sure do.
In the fifth year/the same as the fourth/God hurling curses at me for holding back and
taking so long to come/God stepping on my prostrate form/laughing at me as I lay
humiliated, bound, nailed to the cross of my very own design/Was this the same God who
gave me a heart of glass and completely drained it of blood and replaced it with
vinegar?/the same God who ruled my life on Easy Avenue?/oh God my God/why hast thou
forsaken me?
In the sixth year the pulsating music in the midnight hour/in the church of God
overflowing with Margaritas/wine coolers/Kamikazes and Southern Comfort and a dozen cases
of beer/God standing five-foot-ten/wearing black leather and spike heels/and my memories
of Quiapo and Divisoria and pictures of Smoky Mountain long buried beneath the clouds of
incense/no more Imperialism/Feudalism/or Bureaucrat-Capitalism/no more identity or
conscience or compassion for people on some islands ten thousand miles away/no more me and
no more history/disappearing in a blowjob in the car in a dark empty lot in the
city/surrendering my soul to my God.
In the seventh year pornographic priestess holding court over my orgy of pain and
deceit/while Jekyll and Hyde haggle with the Piper/and I see that God is truly
everywhere/God smoking crack/God shooting smack/God selling lipstick and perfume/God
ruling the world.
In the eighth year the clap/and crabs/and fear of HIV/and for the first time/God cried/I
saw God cry/and I asked "Why?"/why/if you are God/must you cry?/and I saw God
hurt and tire and listened as God recited poetry to me/and I slunk away in shame from the
pained look in the eyes of my God/and I thought/perhaps White Woman is not God after all!
In the ninth year God held my hand and tried to make me calm down/and I pulled away and
retreated/for this had not been the usual manner of my God.
In the tenth year White Woman was just woman/the altar had been smashed to rubble/and I
stumbled about in a daze/trying to make sense of what I saw.
In the eleventh year White Woman went to work like any other person with a job/and joined
all the other women/all the other people on the earth/and after we had sex the last time
and parted ways in sadness/I felt my insides emptied of all the remnants of my false
religion/for I knew she could no longer save me.
And I gazed up at the ceiling and cried/and in my emptiness I sighed and slowly
began to live.
Copyright 1994 by Sal Morano
(originally published in "Impetuous Magazine," Fullerton, California, 1994)
Witness
I listened to someone's doomed songs
in the psychiatric ward
at Baguio General Hospital, like
"You are everything, and everything is you"
one hundred thousand million times
"You are everything, and everything is you"
over and over and over and over and over and over again
sitting on the cold stone floor
high up in the mountain province
leaning against the iron bars
"You are everything, and everything is you"
I knew you in San Juan
when you locked the door and dove head first
into an ocean of pornography
when you buried yourself in glossy pages
and wanted never to return
when you beat off for hours, went to sleep
and beat off some more late into the night
into the wee hours of the morning
I saw you
visit the whorehouses in Manila
the massage parlors in Quezon City, Los Angeles and Long Beach
I saw you
at drive-in theaters
where you scarfed down double bacon cheeseburgers
with giant orders of fries and large Cokes
where you burped and farted and jacked off
where you yearned to disappear into the movie
I saw you wake up
after falling asleep during the last screening
and I watched you drive away slowly
at 1:30 in the morning
the last car on the lot
I watched you
enter the Mayan Theater, slump down into a seat
and glance over your shoulders
to make sure nobody could see you masturbating
over the furious action on the screen
I was with you in Long Beach
when you jerked off for six hours in front of a black and white TV
and watched all the late night shows
all the talk shows, all the mysteries, all the sitcoms
all the music shows, everything
and kept turning the dial because there was nothing perfect
I was with you
when you cautiously stepped into Morrie's dance hall
where you paid a quarter per minute
to dance with tired, bored white women
and when you walked to your car later
along the sidewalk at eleven o'clock at night
glancing over your shoulders, but not aware enough
to be afraid of muggers and other people
preyed on late night lone pedestrians
I was with you in Wilmington
when you rented porno videos to keep yourself amused
and drew the curtains so no one could see you
and you lost yourself over and over again
in the madness and unreality on mass-produced tapes and
you rewound the tapes so you could play back the most exciting parts
you rewound them again and tried to time your orgasm
to the most exciting portions, with thigh and tits and tongue
and hair and lips and color and motion
to be lost in the manufactured action on the TV screen
and death was what you yearned for more than anything
I was with you
in the car when you banged your fist hard against the ceiling
when you gripped your steering wheel hard
and begged for an answer
I watched you
pull over and take a piss in an alley near Vermont Avenue
wondering to yourself why the hell you were out this late
on a Sunday night and didn't you have better things to do
I heard you cry out
after getting head from a hooker near PCH
out in a vacant lot off a side street used by coke dealers
after you'd just fucked a hitchhiker in a cheap motel room
two miles away and watched the money quickly disappear
I heard you cry out
as you carried your soul in your wallet
and spent with total insanity
for the feel of warm human flesh attached to tired, weary bones
I heard you cry out
and moan your hurt in Long Beach
pulling into gas stations at midnight
to buy fuel for the engine
to keep the engine running in the search
for life and excitement in heroin- and crack-infested
neighborhoods in Long Beach, Carson, San Pedro and Harbor City
to keep the engine going
deep into the darkest night of the soul
I was there
when the alcoholics snickered at you
raised their eyebrows
cracked jokes and thought you strange
saying, "We don't talk about that here!"
And I saw you
visit Sunnyside Cemetery
weeping for dead people you never knew
weeping for past residents of Redlands
a city you thought might become some kind of home
weeping for babies who were born the same year you were
weeping for their sudden death
weeping for their devastated parents
who bought pitiful tombstones that read "our little angel"
asking "why me? why me?"
why am I still alive?
why did they have to die?
why them and not me?
I watched you
enter the bookstore across the street from the car lot
the gift shop that sold hope and the possibility of miracles
and I heard you tell and listen to the same story
about the grand adventure
about the magnificent sojourn of a surgeon and a stockbroker
about the raising of the dead
I cringed when I heard that
the police came and locked your friends up in Chino
because they messed around with young girls
but I was not too surprised.
I cringed when you got the news of suicide
when your running friend drove his Ford pick-up to Angelus Oaks
and disappeared and they never found his body.
And I am with you today in Redlands
where you live quietly
in an old building near Fern
where you crawl into a sleeping bag at night
thankful for not having AIDS or gonorrhea or syphilis
and where you awaken in the morning
grateful for having enough to get by
perhaps just enough
enough for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
enough for spaghetti and broccoli and breadsticks
enough for rice and fish and cantaloupe
enough for milk and apple juice
enough for rent
enough for gas
enough for coffee and bagels
enough to feel that it's okay to stay alive and run and
have a good time and not think that the only answer to all
mysteries lies in orgasm till death or jumping off a cliff.
Enough to know that enough is enough
And that the end does not have to come too soon.
Copyright 1992 by Sal Morano
My Recovery will not be Televised
(With apologies to Gil Scott Heron, "The Revolution will not be
Televised")
My recovery will not be televised.
Network cameras were not there to record all the times
I did not pull over for hookers in Los Angeles and Long Beach,
When I avoided porno shops and cocktail lounges,
Shut my eyes in movie theaters in Riverside and San Bernardino.
My recovery will not be televised on the networks or on cable.
My recovery will not be televised.
CNN will not all of a sudden show up in my apartment
at two in the morning after I've awakened from a wet dream
and accepted the reality of my physiology without succumbing
to the temptation of lust.
My recovery is not be broadcast on KFWB,
My sobriety will not be brought to you by Levi's 501 Jeans or AT&T.
My recovery will not be televised.
And no one will see me weep in the night as
My heart mourns the death of friends and loved ones.
No tape will be running as I ask God "Why?"
As I resign my fate to my God and
Cast my body upon his marble slab.
No. My recovery is not recorded on magnetic tape.
My recovery will not be televised --
The number of times I say the Serenity Prayer and
Feel a part of my insides die will not go down in history
Or win for me an EMMY award.
My recovery will not be televised.
My recovery will not be televised or aired anywhere.
I will not be handed a million-dollar contract
because I surrendered my lust.
I will not get an Oscar because I turned away
from the cover of a porno magazine.
I will not win a Grammy for singing in the shower
about my continuing success.
Peter Jennings will not sit down with me to ask me how I did it.
John Stossel will not stick a microphone in my face.
Connie Chung will not ask me to whisper in her ear
what I really think of my disease.
Tom Brokaw won't feature me as a human interest story,
nor is that my ambition.
My recovery is not meant to be televised.
Not on "Sixty Minutes", not on "20/20", not on "Primetime
Live,"
and definitely not on Jerry Springer.
Sally Jessie Rafael will not interview me in front of a live studio audience,
Ricki Lake will not glamorize my plight,
Geraldo will not make me into a circus sideshow,
And Dan Rather will not bring me into the nation's living rooms.
None of my continuing recovery will be glorified live via satellite
And beamed around the world,
Nor will it be aired from the desert to the sea and
to all of Southern California.
The Great Western Forum will not resound with applause and
Cheers from a capacity crowd of 17-thousand 5-0-5
As I am introduced at center court by Chick Hearn.
The NBA will not give me a championship ring
for not masturbating or peeping through windows.
No one will invite me to be a guest on "Sunday Sports Final" --
side by side with Tiger Woods.
Oprah Winfrey won't be there in my quietest moments
When I kneel before my God and surrender it all to Him,
When I close my eyes in prayer and thank Him for yet another day of life.
None of this will be taken in by any camcorder,
None of this will be televised.
But my message will travel far and wide
And somehow cause me to be remembered quietly
and fondly by the few people I leave behind as a decent,
honest, loving, and -- sometimes -- humble man.
Copyright 1997 by Sal Morano
Copyright � 1986-1999 Sal
Morano
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