Twenty Questions

I am not a person. You could consider me a place. I can be as small as a loaf of bread or as big as a smiling school bus filled with uniformed children, it doesn’t matter. I could fit in the palm of your hand if you wanted me to. I am a loaded question with a right answer. I am the Queen’s English. I am diabolical. I am not yet paying the bills. I am your name carved into a bar of soap. I am God’s Strongest Soldier. I am a hometown hero. I am your baby shoes cast in bronze. I am a weed scraping for sunlight through every crack in this broken sidewalk. No, I am not happy go fucking lucky. I am luck itself. I am the greatest of all time. I am the rock in your pocket that means that you are nothing. I am the failed rocket launch, the baby teeth on the cupboard shelf, the wide tooth comb brushing out your tearless tangles. I am Orpehus at the houseparty. I am not waving back at you in the rearview as I head for the highway. I do not haunt that house anymore. I am not your televangelist dream girl. Who could be? I am the candle burning up the church. I am the new chord you once sought to strike. I am not a dart, nor a pleat. I am the doorbell to the darkened palace. I am the landline number engraved into your hippocampus. I am the rodeo clown roiling through dirt clouds at dusk. I am railing against the reboot. I am a love amniotic, a ‘78 Quaalude. I am the sexiest quadratic equation. I am a pleasure to have in class! I am crusading for joy, decanting Oxytocin. I am not the abject fantasy fluttering across your iPhone. I am going to leave you flabbergasted. I am the phoenix rising from the ashtray in your minivan. I am the silk scarf smothering your skull as it starts to rain.  I am reappearing in the breeze. I am the ferry zipping the river shut behind it. (Unfortunately, I cannot swim.) I was born like a boxer. I was declawed like a mutt. I am counting down backwards from 100, so you better run and hide. I am a to-go cup of clotted cream. I am speculative destiny. I am the Sylvester Stallone impersonator you hired to pick you up from your colonoscopy because no one else you loved was free. I am the third martini. I am the radiant gist, the memoir, the mind games. I am 99% heartbreak. Am the aspirin mashed up against your bleeding gums, am your wish lofted wordlessly into the fountain. I am alive, or dreaming. I am tickled by this notion. I am not a person. Who could be? I am exactly what you bargained for. I am you. I am.