Big Homie

Big Homie, they called him,
and yeah, he was big.  Around for years,
he got rounder through all of them,
and spoke more slowly over time
since it took the words longer to get out.

Big Homie used to balance on knife blades when he talked
and they’d watch to see how he didn’t fall. 
Now he’s bloody all the time.
His feet look like a cheese grater, red prints
on the barroom floors tell them where he’s been.

Big Homie used to eat lightbulbs like candy
and when he opened his mouth shone
like the Yukon at midnight in summer.
Lately he’s taken to speaking in the dark.
Lately he’s taken by how he can only talk in the dark.

Big Homie, they call him. Big Homie, whose light
and shadow aren’t on speaking terms anymore.
Big Homie, who one night knows he’ll get home
and the lamps will not light, the shadows will sink
into pure black, he’ll be alone, and they won’t care.