Come Out Wherever You Are
This is not me. That’s me over there, in that chair, picking nits from my lover’s hair.
That’s not me in the chair. That’s me thundering by on the “A” Train, years ago, on my way to learn Yiddish.
You might try some research. Just last week on Death Row the guard said I was all over Facebook. Try cutting the comments into a word collage. Put them in a wicker basket and shake it. Stick your hand in and pull one out. Just don’t blame me if something gnaws off your fingers.
You might take a look at my birth certificate, if you can track down my place of birth. You might look for a genetic thumb print.
You may not believe this, but I support your snoopy endeavor. I’m as curious as the next man to nail down my identity.
(Look! Up here! Beating myself to death against a 40-watt ceiling bulb! That’s me, or will be in some future incarnation.)
There’s a glue that holds the whole thing together, a unified theory that would make Einstein coo like a morning dove.
The one thing I know for sure is that when I put the pen down, I shatter into a million pieces.
