Who am I. What am I. Where am I. Why am I here.
What is this. What is that. What the ****.
Darkness. Black. Unknown. Otherworldly. A desolate
island of personality surrounded by a vast sea
of conversation and tradition and authenticity
but mostly imitation and deceit and insincerity
and trickery and ******* and **** this and
hold on I’m not finished and who ******* cares
you’re nobody. Why would I tell you about myself
when tomorrow you’ll be sleeping with a person
who forgets your name but has a car and a house
and a washing machine for nice clothes and a driveway
that leads to a nice garage with a doorway to
a big backyard with a fence and two dogs and
a tree with a swing. Who’s to say tomorrow
I won’t get hit by a bus or miss a step at the library
or forget to wake up or win the lottery or
spend my last cent. Who says next Thursday
I won’t run into you turning the corner on the
jog I never take and you fall and I laugh
because I’m ****** up and you cry and I say stop
because my mother cried and you stop
and I forget to apologize for knocking you down
but you know that I meant to and we don’t
say another word but we look at each other
and suddenly I know
who I am &
where we are &
why I’m here &
what I am going to do &
you tell me your name but I already know.