The Man Who Couldn't Cry

A friend sent me a collection of cd's. 5 of em. On number 4 is a cut of Johnny Cash's The Man Who Couldn't Cry. (thanks Laurell).

As if resurected so he could leave us with a collage of his life's accumulated wisdom, the man in black sat down with his guitar and struck a final chord. (thanks rubin).

There's a place inside of me that understands EXACTLY the saga of the man who couldn't cry. I
think it was George Carlin who said, "scratch a cynic and underneath is a disgruntled idealist".

And with good reason in my mind.

There once was a man who just couldn't cry
He hadn't cried for years and for years
Napalmed babies and the movie love story
For instance could not produce tears
As a child he had cried as all children will
Then at some point his tear ducts ran dry
He grew to be a man, the feces hit the fan
Things got bad, but he couldn't cry


You find yourself thrown into a world that shows no real compassion for the human condition. That seems to not be able to do anything but add to it. And for awhile, you cry. But sooner or later, usually sooner, heartbroken, you cry no more. You haven't got the balls to blow your brains out so you resign yourself to life's tragic plot.

His dog was run over, his wife up and left him
And after that he got sacked from his job
Lost his arm in the war, was laughed at by a whore
Ah, but sill not a sniffle or sob
His novel was refused, his movie was panned
And his big Broadway show was a flop

But you cry no more. What's the use anyway? And then, you become jaded.

He got sent off to jail; you guessed it, no bail
Oh, but still not a dribble or drop
In jail he was beaten, bullied and buggered
And made to make license plates
Water and bread was all he was fed
But not once did a tear stain his face


The theologians cry out, God is good, God is merciful. But you can't help but wonder, how is it possible that a loving God could invent so much suffering and misery? Where's the justice? Your cry for it and it never comes. Worse, nobody seems to understand just what your problem is. You find yourself alone. Oh, so alone.

Doctors were called in, scientists, too
Theologians were last and practically least
They all agreed sure enough; this was sure no cream puff
But in fact an insensitive beast

And, in your aloneness, you look around and you see others alone too. Hidden in plain site behind some damn invisible wall. Untouchable.

But, tragic though it is, life has an ironic way of turning shit into... well, something of some kind of weird value.

He was removed from jail and placed in a place
For the insensitive and the insane
He played lots of chess and made lots of friends
And he wept every time it would rain

And, despite that its unexplainable, you recognize the value. You just can't help yourself because it triggered some mysterious, hidden wisdom. The kind you've been running from all your life. Or was it toward?

And you begin to cry. Finally. And then you begin to remember.

Once it rained forty days and it rained forty nights/
And he cried and he cried and he cried and he cried

On the forty-first day, he passed away
He just dehydrated and died

Well, he went up to heaven, located his dog
Not only that, but he rejoined his arm
Down below, all the critics, they loot it all back
Cancer robbed the whore of her charm

His ex-wife died of stretch marks, his ex-employer went broke
The theologians were finally found out
Right down to the ground, that old jail house burned down
The earth suffered perpetual drought

Justice prevails!