Who do you think you are?
it’s a good question, when you think about it,
me, I’m a massive living statue that shoots lasers from its face,
I guess, I’m a guardian of the realm,
perched on a rampart, black as ash on the sun,
ya know, basically, I stand watch is all,
they come in straight lines like space invaders,
and I make laser sounds with my lips pointing and pursing.
but do I, hit, anything, ever?
I wonder because I never know, or knew,
like all my kind I’m bound and blind,
it is an odd thing to call yourself guardian,
that which is not necessarily but could be,
am I on my side? Or am I a spy?
Maybe poetry is poison.
I bet it’s odd to be the space between stanza’s,
to waver between conception and evincing,
does it think of itself in this way?
does the space between stanzas believe in existence?
is the short answer, and the correct one also,
because it doesn’t believe anything, it’s a concept,
Is it everything? Is it me? Am I it?
I could believe one thing, or just as likely the other,
but who do I think I am?
To unveil the question I’ll start with the answer,
Andrew Halter, basically a nice guy,
I’m funny, obviously, as you can see, maybe,
but am I a crusader for justice?
no, I like justice, I don’t crusade, not yet I don’t,
maybe I’ll just crusade, figure it out later,
so as you can see I’m pretty unfocused,
if I had focus I would do great sad things,
speckle my lawn like soulless supermen,
they would haunt me like ghosts in The Wire,
but I’m glad and I don’t want to even know,
I could create a utopia with my loneliness.
there are no utopias,
nor were there nor will there be,
a spurious concept, utopia, like a miracle tonic,
step right up, step right up, everyone does their part,
I’m like please,
once there you try to hold, and mold stinks,
the ground decays, fear into hate, love into death,
heaven is constantly moving,
so that’s what I know, for the first thing anyway,
I am a pessimist, would be termed thus,
that’s the first thing, I’m also a philosopher,
allowing ideas to float, bubble pop and stick,
but I lack focus though, and so I’m left with this,
begin with no end, maybe see wisdom in the lines.
So is there a conclusion?
To the wisdom, does an end come?
smirking question mark wiseass,
I don’t know, what use are you?
I’m no use, breath and pause on a page, yammering in a desert,
piling words on each other, a sightless end,
this is all I am, an adventuring nothing,
going nowhere, questing thus.
And oh shit, I just read the earlier in this poem, and I sound like a dick,
like I think I’m the inspirational street magician, “just check your messages,”
and there’s just a voice on the phone saying “please don’t kill yourself,”
and it’s like “whoa I didn’t even tell anyone about the gun in my pocket,”
“the gun with but one bullet, you know the one,” my last bullet, you know,
but there I go again off on my own, going down the only road I’ve ever known,
And bam, right there is a good end, oh shit I just fucked it up, again.