I've had trouble being myself lately
it's always like playing a role
that I haven't rehearsed enough for
who am I?
really?
I think I've been too occupied with trying not to mess up
that I never introduced myself
shouldn't it be natural?
being one's self?
it doesn't feel that way
I coast through most of life
on autopilot
but sometimes I wake up
and think
where the hell am I?
did I miss my exit?
isn't it so strange to be a person?
everyone I've ever met
has an image of who I am
isn't it strange to think that I exist?
I'm a character in other peoples' stories
how odd
I'm barely a character in my own
perhaps I should ask them something about me
do you know me?
could you tell me something about me?
I don't think we've been properly introduced
I never was good at meeting people

i am much younger than i am
my hair is dark and thick
instead of pruned bald
i am lean and meek
feeling hollow
as if weightless

we are at an airport
with no memory of getting there

i had left my hotel room urgently
in a jacket that is not mine

i can't find my Swedish wife
whom i miss like a panicked child
and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before
and know all to well
is angry
and could care less if i got lost forever

i am going home to my parents house
i remember that they are dead
but we had just spoken
there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's

they wait for me

on my way
the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar
yet old hat
and no matter how long i walk
i can never find their house
located somewhere in Brooklyn
on Haze street in San Francisco

i have a business
and retain no idea of what i do

i left my cloths somewhere
and i don't know why
in a locality i cant remember
for a reason that doesn't exist

a beautiful woman smiles offers me ***
she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too
but do not know and never met
i want to cheat with her
but guilty kisses will ruin everything
so i turn away
murdering desire
in an already anchor-less miasma

i remember a past
my life a continuum
of disjointed vagaries
tears well up

i fear myself a figment
a bodiless revenant
stranded in a fog
sparkles and smoke
incandescence and shrouds
a dis-junctured soul
that clutches memories
like braids of dust
living in the eye of nothing
a labyrinth of shades
lighted by the sun of cognizance
a wretched phantom
transparent husk
living a dark fiction
my grave a womb

i am the dead living