I occur to me--like a deep sea methane
bubble.
The one getting away with the perfect
crime, the one that pops into pictures
mid-cheese.
The one that believes the ability to
perceive sixty-four squares is proof of
mastery.
The one afforded views from where the
sun will no longer be.
The one that weather goes to for advice.
The one who demands the provenance of
a day's counterfeit painting.
The one who just left Kant's: "The Critique of Pure Reason" on the set of:
"Rebel Without a Cause".
The one who thinks internal organs are a
hellish realm, conspiratorial whispers.
The one who thinks ending this poem
would be a mercy-killing, yet the imaginative commitment to a deer's
suffering lifts before a gun's fired.
As it were, who I take myself to be--is
unexpectedly confronted.
It's this secret avatar whose
overly-accurate resemblance I no longer
fall for--I have a feel for my Face.
It's gaming diversion, of inner-reflections
hid behind--which I've now turned on the
secret avatar.