Stolen Identity
‘Every being seemed to me to be entitled to
several other lives.’ — Rimbaud, ‘Délires,’
Une Saison en Enfer
Won’t someone please assist me by stealing
My identity? I’m sick of it. Friends
And family are yawning; I’m feeling
Bored, too. My ID no longer portends
Not one thing interesting. As to the youth,
Not only do they not remember me,
But any I might meet think I’m Duluth,
Which never managed an identity.
If someone stole mine, maybe I could start
Again, become a porn star or a nerd
In IT making billions, or make art
By spreading stretched, framed canvas with a turd.
..I’m tired of being a slogging writer.
….Make way for an al-qaeda fighter!