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I.
"Who am I?"
White, the whisper wanders out from Eden,
some slouching slope of subcontinuity
crumbling on waking as so many breadcrumbs
spilling from those fancy foil packages.
Why do they do that, put things in boxes?
There seems to be a trend here,
of covering things,
bags-in-boxes and all.
I wish they would just let you choose
whether you bought the bag or the box,
both on the shelf:
"Hey there, sorry about the confusion, but
we thought we'd just let you choose this time around."
Oh man! That would make me insane.
Alligatorcrazy like a whipped up Pentecostal.
I use the metaphor lightly like someone who knows what that means.
Lately I do not recognize myself when I look in the mirror.
I do not recognize myself when I look in the mirror lately,
and it terrifies me. My coffee has a weird piece of something in it.
(Are we related?)
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II.
I start writing, intending verse, bordering on Pentecostal
(that is to say speaking in a notsocertain tongue)
and so there is no continuity.
Words flow from one end to the other swimmingsosonorant
BUT
(and here I do not say it lightly)
despite it all there is no music.
I have lost the plot, as they say,
whoever THEY are, saying things,
putting bags in boxes instead of just one or the other.
THEY have it all figured out, apparently,
which strikes me as strange,
since to my knowledge WE’RE all just
trundling
along.
Drawing lines is a dangerous pasttime and here I find myself doodling—
I refill my coffee and it tastes worse this time
(overcooked—are we related?)
and now I try to fit form to reason— reason to form?
What madness is this that compels me to degenerate?
What is degeneration without a baseline?
This is why I am so frightened:
to whom am I comparing myself?
I can't compare myself to myself (we've covered this, love)
at least not now,
not yet.
But when is the right time?
Empty questions for an emptier room,
meditations on madness made by a madman,
a word that, in its parts,
feels ingenuine in my mouth.
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III.
Who am I?
Is the self one person? Who gets to drive?
(Who gets the aux?)
I contradict myself in every waking moment
BUT
(and here I am ohsodelicate laceonfire)
which of me is the contradiction?
Do I contradict myself?
Is degeneration our consequence?
Is this who wIe aarem determined to be,
doodling lines in empty rooms?
How can my body be so puzzlepiece sweet in the question mark of another’s
when my brain doesn’t fit behind its face?
Is the craving for intimacy or metamorphosis?
There is little distinction anymore between desire and admiration.
I think I know what I want—
or at least I think I do—
but who gets to drive?
(In theory, the owner:
I do not, however, remember where I put the lease agreement.
I was a different person then.)
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