Self Portrait

I am in two places

at once?

I carry some baggage.

Duffel trains and suit sleeves

in organized heaps and piles.

If I’m to believe in myself,

I may as well make it interesting.

Two souls,

one heart,

coriander.

If a wave comes along,

I let it wash over me.

I like to pretend that I am the water.

I am the water.

Poutine!

It can corrode like toothpaste!

Okay if I make one more mistake,

I quit!

I know all the parts of me,

psychic anatomy,

unrolled like a cadaver.

It’s like there are more of me

than I had presumed.

Okay,

is this a poem or nah?

I never met my body.

We have some mutual friends.

I’ve seen him,

1:37 in the bathroom mirror.

Maybe we spoke.

I don’t know.

Sometimes I feel like I’m a vampire

unless I’m flossing.

Everything boils down to something.

At least, in my experience,

there is always another layer,

another parallel set of logic gates

answering only the wire that signalled…

Blipped?

Maybe, but these networks,

these layers,

alternates,

am I a toon in some circuit board?

It’s a real question.

Every question is a real question.

The only thing that makes my couch soft

is the fact that I’m sitting in it,

and I can confirm that it is,

in fact,

soft.

It is because I believe it is.

I am because I believe I am.

But when the dust settles

and I’m stuck staring at a book’s spine

for far too long to be considered appropriate,

where am I?

I say,

“Wake up!

Remember to breathe!

If you don’t, you’ll get tired,

drowsy,

weak,

confused.”

Like where am I,

and who inhabits my body?