When you look in the Bible and see the name Joseph
You're told the story of Jesus' forgotten stepfather
One half of the team that is responsible for creating both
One of the most recognizable religions in history and the catalyst for countless wars
When you look in a history book and see the name Joseph
You'll likely read about the mustachioed man that ruled Russia with an iron fist
Capturing countries in his communist cage
But to his credit, Stalin did have one hell of a mustache
When you look in the basement of a South Jersey home
That's been built in the most forgettable part of Camden County
You'll see a Joseph splayed out across a couch that was originally intended to seat at least four people
To say that I was named Joseph in an effort to embody some important figure
Would be giving my father too much credit
You see, like a mother-in-law around Christmas, I came into my parent's lives much earlier than anticipated
And although I may not know all of the details, I'm sure my dad wanted a name that would be easy to remember
I can assure you it's not the sweet smell of roses.
For me it more closely resembles the metallic tang of blood on freshly scraped knees
Busted open because of my inability to manage my endlessly elongating legs
Because if Yosef in Hebrew is meant to mean "he will add"
Then for me it must mean he will add as many scars to his body as possible
Especially if it highlights his embarrassing lack of grace
And if I have ever truly added
Then I must only be able to add up numbers on a scale
As I eat enough Skittles to make me hate myself
Or perhaps I'm only able to add cracks
To the heart that I have stapled to my sleeve
Gifting it to those that would see it torn to tatters
If there's one thing I do know
It's that I have subtracted from myself so often
That I hardly recognize the Joe that I used to be
My Skittles-induced physique has been replaced
That could blow away on a stiff breeze
The blood on my knees is long dried and washed away
But my carelessness is born anew in the form of
Fresh cuts and faded scars criss-crossing trembling hands
When my father named me Joseph
I'm sure he envisioned me as an extension of himself
I'm sure he thought of me as an addition to a recently acquired ranch house
A garage to park his presumed notion of who I will be
A younger version of himself-
With a chest as wide as a barrel of Jim Beam Bourbon
Arms like artillery shells capable of caving in a garage door
And calloused hands the size of catcher's mitts
Imagine his disappointment when Joseph Jr.
Rolled out of the garage with-
A chest so narrow you can play my ribs like a xylophone
Arms more akin to al dente angel-hair pasta than weapons of destruction
And with hands silky smooth save for the faint marks left behind from choking my pen
Until it puts a poem on the page
This Joseph won't become a part of scripture
Or grow a mustache capable of starting a Cold War
Or live up to the lofty expectations of his Senior
But if there's one thing that I intend to do especially if it kills me
It's to live a life all my own
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