I can surely tell you
where I came from
and the rivers I drank.
I can speak of
all the suns I stole
and the stars I bagged.
How about the hearts
I poked and the minds
I sacked?
I can talk about the womb days
of darkness from which
I sprang.
Oh, I must discuss the images I sang.
I can’t leave out the days and years
I have killed and stacked.
But, as to who I am, well, I don’t have that.
That is in pieces now, cut up
like barbecued swine.
One lover has my youth, can’t say she stole;
I gave freely, but she has it now,
nevertheless.
Another has the fury of the thoughts
of my Sturm und Drang tucked away
somewhere far.
Two have devoured
my tender side, now split
between two worlds.
The true picture of my soul I lost
to my first wife, who has it tattooed
on her chocolate-colored thigh.
My manhood lies behind the eyes
of a blue-blooded ex, now sailing against
that horizon near the land of Oz.
I can tell you where I came from
but, as to who I am,
that’s not found in me.
