I am Not Kurt Schwitters and Neither am I
(with Jim Carroll)
I am not Kurt Schwitters. I am not a blue rider tracking the German cobblestone streets in snow in the old part of town - a port nowhere near.
I am not Kurt Schwitters. I am not a hero nailing up pictures hoping to be accepted into the club or to at least get off in the process somehow less poetic but more sensitive.
I am not Sal Mineo. I am not Bernard Clairvaux nor Bernard King for that matter. I am not the stooped woman before dawn beneath the bridge in platform lights at the spit of a devil’s station waiting too early for a train that comes much later.
I am not Pushkin. I am not Frantz Fanon nor Fritz the Cat for whatever that matters. I am not the better-than-you-to-do youngster in a bar window awaiting twilight under dim lights and shadows cast through ice and glass breaking beams in ways that god never intended but will never take the time to prevent.
I am not the moon tonight, thin, crescent, serrated like a Yemenite dagger. I am not Neo Trotsky at the red light. I am not where I am not a red on my fire escape.
I am not the clouds today, bigger and more brilliant than the sun built to be blocked better than Mt. Mutombo could. I am not up to no good when good has gotten as bad as it gets on its way to being great again.
I am not Frances Bacon nor would I want to be. I am not a framer of the constitution nor a Merovingian king nor Charlemagne anointed by Caprice. I am not a child of any czar or I don’t think.
I am not Duchamp nor Hugo Ball tucking his pretensions beneath and between the ready-made legs of a dress-up, make-believe queen for a day. I am the princess who slept on the pea best she could but with some complaints to come in the morning. I am not any empire or of this I will not speak.
I am not a corpse buried beneath snow waiting for spring to be found. I am not Richard Nixon nor a flaming monk of Buddha.
I am not a body. This is not a body but an identity performing an act of sweating in the August heat. I am not an elected official nor a saint awaiting their lionization.
I am not the sum of impositions nor subdued by destiny. But, by my faith and its misgivings, by will’s abuse, misunderstandings, misjudgments, without me, the oceans sleep like glass, the snows do not avalanche, changing continually the shape of the mountain.
And by that, let no one assume any form had any function but to fall and by meaning let it be a word martyred for its vowels’ harmony and its consonants clustered together for strength within this fascism of a language.
(Words by Jim Carroll can be found in Fear of Dreaming Of Dreaming)