My wallet was stolen, my identity with it.
Multi-ocular buildings and sidewalks turned away
from the filching. How hard-nosed
this freeze of street muck,
how gray the granite air. I am 22 today,
although verifiability has skipped the scene
much like those ducky twos
that sail at a clip backwards
in time foreseeing and fleeing the day science
overcomes mortality. The numbers are meanest
where divination is concerned; in their cards we learn
to live and live, and down their graphpaper timelines
we stomp like giants, our hearts
our brains fortified circuitries, outfitted with spines
and the juice to keep burning even once that soul thing
gasps and gurgles something solemn before diffusing
from disease or just malaise…
Look at me. Look at me.
I’ve lost the context critical. I’ve had to cancel
everything to play the schizotypal dissident
to Corporate Colossus. As if the birthday happened
to my driver’s license
and not me. Slick of plastic
in my likeness made, count your numbers and hold them close.