I can't quite explain why I have no stories.
No funny intro to my life, all the time I have spent
in all the years you never knew me,
Or in yesterday, or the day before.

I didn't do nothing, you know.
Though my funny bone is brittle
and my life tellable only in episodes, hurtling towards—
—more episodes to come.

Perhaps I'm too predictable once you get used to me; Yet

when you rewind to episode two or three for that joke—whatsit—
you'll have forgotten I used to be like that.

I'm tired of myself.

Actually no, I'm just saying that.

I do tire of myself, I need to experience the outside,

But my concern is with and for myself.

It's a kind of colonizing; reducing to an experience

All of that outside, and appropriating it

To write myself into the books.

I won't defend it as creative collateral damage.

I will defend it, though. Hold the fort

For my brain's right to devour, exploit,

To do damage to itself, to have its quality recognized,

To melt, impermanently, and be resurrected or reborn.

I Other you right back, you Other, you.

Take THAT.

Then it strikes me.

No use, and that's why I'm inviting the fight, again.

To be split-second sure, as I hear jaw decisively Crack

Again.