I just front flipped off a thirty-foot bridge.
Nah, that was me ten years ago.
Twenty years ago I was running naked
through the streets of my small town.
Thirty years ago I was planting my painted
hand unconsciously on a poster board
signing my name I knew not why.
Before that I was just a chrysalis
with a single pack of matches
mumbling to myself Being and Nothingness
plotting my next move like this cloud
cover rushing forth then retreating
before the whistle blew, the gun shot.
Interpreting the small talk of nihilists
and narcissists became a hobby
though I lobbied multiple times
to be paid tiny golden ducklings
a plethora of miniature models
which I imagined might give me insight
into why these seasons weave
so seamlessly into one, whichever sun
currently backhands your forehead.
I soon forgot my forefathers or anyone
with two first names, so try to please
remember these artifacts for later study,
perhaps a dissertation on the desolation
of certain nocturnal birds, or a monument
for whoever invented the term Duh.
I only began to understand the lay
of the land later, when they blindfolded
me and drove me way out into the desert,
I thought to conduct something sinister
but in fact only to show me a flowering cactus,its location their most tightly guarded secret.