He does not know his true name.

There is anger in a man:

he does not know his true name.

It is ours to grow into a world

where we are reminded what our name is not.

It is Eve’s to remind us - and she should.

There is an aching in the gut 

(just beneath the heart)

that begs questions from the dirt used in our clay,

our composition: one of primal things

and primary.

We were made first

once -

no longer.

Now we are realized latest and last,

lost to that void of namelessness.

Every construct given is an empty nicknaming

attempt to fill the space

between who we are

and who we are supposed to be.

All the base

longings demonstrate how far

we are

from who we are supposed to be.

Every face

asks us for our name.

Do you know it yet?

I do not name you, son,

and if you're lucky

you'll know how no one can.

How slow creaks the door closing

in on your identity,

how near passes the comet - 

don't you wish it would be meteor?

Barreling down on your home,

at least then you could watch it go up

in flames.

That is the thing about names:

we are obsessed with them,

we know nothing without them.

Can I know you

if I do not name you


I must address you somehow.

I must confess

I do not know your name.

No one