My Autobiography

A lot of people ask me—it's been going on for months—

who exactly am I, underneath all my fronts?

Which is fair, I'll admit, since so little is known,

by design, by mistake, and by choices my own

to never explain, to never make plain,

to answer each question by dodging again.

So here, once and for all, let the record be told,

here's my autobiography, freshly unrolled:

I'm a man of firm principle—that much is true—

my one firm belief is I don't believe in a few.

I'm dogmatically against every dogma in sight,

definitionally against defining what's right,

and I won't wear a label, not one, not at all,

not even the label that says I wear none—

inconsistency's the only thing I keep consistent,

a fact I repeat with a tone rather insistent.

There is one truth I hold, and I hold it quite tight:

that there are no such truths—which I state with delight.

An ideology built on rejecting them all,

a self so transcended it won't stop the call

to remind you, at length, it's transcended the self—

while checking its reflection, alone, on the shelf.

I hold no values dear, not a single darn one,

except for that value, which outranks every one.

And I've found, believe it or not, in the end,

that meaning means nothing—a fact I now sell, market, and defend.

I answer to no one—no boss, and no master—

which makes me the expert at answering to no one, and faster.

I have broken from tradition so cleanly, so wide,

that the breaking itself is tradition, my pride.

I have never once doubted my gift for the doubting—

that's the one thing about me that's never in doubt.

I draw no hard lines, no boundaries, no border,

except round the subject of boundaries and order,

a subject I'll close, right this second, forever.

My loyalty's pledged to disloyalty—clever.

My ambition is simply the absence of drive,

and my policy's this: not one policy survives.

Nothing lasts, I remind you, again and again—

a permanent truth that I permanently defend.

I fit no known category, no bracket, no bin,

which is, rather conveniently, its own category, within.

I keep matters simple, through methods so grand

they'd baffle a watchmaker, confound a whole land.

I know not a thing, yet I know it far better

than you, or your neighbor, or the man who once met her.

My past means nothing—and yet, every night,

I replay every scene of it, frame-perfect, in light.

Entropy wins in the end, understand,

so I alphabetize spices with militant hand.

I've renounced every craving, let all wanting cease—

except wanting you notice my wanting's release.

And silence, I'm certain, speaks louder than sound—

which is why I talk over the silence I've found.

Perception's illusion, I've come to believe,

though I still need you seeing it just how I conceive.

Free will, I'll admit, is entirely real—

until it's your turn, at which point it congeals.

Good and evil are made up, constructed, designed,

and you, oddly enough, chose the bad one to find.

And time is constructed—a fiction, a frame—

but I'll still be furious if you're late to the same.

I'm above material things, I confess,

so don't touch what is mine, don't move it, don't press.

I live for no praise, need no crowd and no cheer—

and yet, did you notice? I'll say it again, dear.

I never need the last word, not a peep, not a sound—

it just tends to land, somehow, in my hand, unbound.

I never lose temper, go on, ask around—

assuming the askable people are still around.

I loathe an admirer, a fan, a follower—

and yet I've collected a great many, and swallow, err,

no, savor the fact. I don't follow a trend,

I was first to the front of not following, my friend.

My door's always open—but knock first, and wait,

then follow with an email confirming the date.

I never make excuses, that much I'll swear—

in my defense, an excuse isn't worth the hot air.

I hold no grudges, none, not a trace—

I just archive them neatly, each name, rank, and face,

with the proper amount of appropriate rage.

I'm not superstitious. I'm a little bit. Turn the page.

I'm a speck in the cosmos, so vastly, so small—

and offended, profoundly, when treated that way at all.

The universe doesn't care if I'm here or I'm gone—

and I take that dismissal as aimed at me, drawn.

I trust simple logic, right up till the day

that logic, the traitor, has something to say.

I practice restraint, in all matters, with pride—

especially restraint, which I reward from inside,

with excess, with plenty, with second helpings applied.

I care nothing for how I'll be measured, or known—

so long as the plaque's spelled correctly in stone.

Compassion wants nothing, expects no return—

while I quietly count every debt, every turn.

My weakness, embraced, on the days it's convenient—

which happens, by chance, to be nearly permanent.

Enlightenment's struck me, not once, but a few—

and vanished again by the morning news.

I've got no true enemies, only the friends

I've outgrown rather loudly, right up to the end.

Envy's beneath me—that's why, I confess,

I track everybody's with practiced finesse.

Forgiveness arrives, swift, complete, and precise,

on a case-by-case basis that won't quite suffice.

I've made peace with dying, sat with it, and stayed,

then diagnosed something new every night, unafraid.

I'm afraid of no fear—not a one I will name,

though the list, kept in private, would put yours to shame.

Courage means acting though frightened, unsure—

and I've streamlined the acting to nearly zero, no cure.

Reassurance's not needed—just bring it around

often, unasked, in writing, and bound.

Flattery's lost on me, I've evolved past its lure—

so be terribly specific, precise, and demure.

Vanity, I see through it, from every degree,

in the kindest of lighting, at forty-five, facing me.

I stopped needing to be right—the very same day

that I was, in fact, right, in every last way.

Winning means nothing—a line I'll repeat

from the podium, holding the trophy, replete.

My integrity's not up for sale, understand—

though I'm always prepared to hear what's on hand.

I question all things, except who taught me to doubt,

who remains, oddly, exempt, left completely without.

I refuse the whole herd, and I walk far behind

a much smaller herd, of my own like-minded kind.

I see through the system—the whole rigged design—

from a plush, cozy seat that the system assigned.

I distrust every bank, every steeple, and still

need one to sign off on my mortgage and bill.

I reject the whole mainstream, and build, with great flair,

an audience explaining exactly, right there, why I don't care.

I'm not one for politics—merely have views,

every hour, on end, on the folks in the news.

I distrust every leader, until they agree—

at which point they're brilliant, a genius, you see.

I don't buy the dream that hard work makes you great—

and I'm chasing that dream at a furious rate.

I see through advertisements, their tricks, and their aim,

in the shirt that they sold me, still bearing their name.

I'll worship no idol, no altar, no throne,

faithfully, weekly, in a chapel my own.

I need no proud flag to feel love for my land,

just fury when somebody else's flies grand.

I've broken completely, entirely, free

from the whole grinding system—and made sure you'd see.

I distrust every business, every brand, every store—

while dressed, head to foot, in the logos they wore.

I treat language with care, as a tool men employ

to control the whole room—and the room I'll enjoy.

I refuse a small part in a plan built too neat,

from the desk that plan gave me, my name, and my seat.

I don't need instruction on how to be living—

just shelves full of unread books, quietly giving

off a glow of potential I'll never quite reach,

a library of wisdom I'll never quite teach.

I've healed every wound from the years I was young—

which still, to this moment, won't answer, unstrung.

I love myself fully, no limits, no end—

mostly by tearing to shreds every friend.

I need no confession, no priest, and no booth—

just strangers, unasked, hearing all of my truth.

I'm free from the judgment of others, complete—

and I comb through their comments each night, indiscreet.

I don't chase the symbols that status implies—

I just know, with precision, what they signify.

And under it all: I don't trust what's objective—

except when it's mine, at which point it's corrective.

I've made peace with not knowing—and still, I insist,

on an answer by five, no delay will persist.

I trust the whole process, its ebb and its flow—

especially the parts I control, high or low.

I don't fear the forgetting—I keep every trace,

of everything, always, in every last place.

I believe truth sets free—once it's cleared me, and then,

it may speak, may proceed, may continue again.

I no longer need watchers, an audience, a crowd—

and I write like they're present, attentive, and loud.

I don't fear the failing—I've readied so well

that I never once meet it, not once, truth to tell.

Every end is beginning, a fresh, open door—

and I still owe that letter from March, nothing more.

I don't think that time mends every wound, every scar—

I think, simply, I've stopped checking how the wounds are.

And that, best I can tell, is the whole of my name—

which is to say I've no notion, and yet I'll proclaim,

with more certainty now than I've held in my life,

that not knowing at all is my compass, my knife.

But look long enough, closely, and see how it bends:

I'm no rare exception, no glitch, no strange end,

no warning shot fired from way out on the fringe.

I'm you, with the houselights turned up past the hinge,

you without the disguise that you carefully wore,

caught mid-contradiction, mid-sentence, mid-door,

and kept talking anyway, on and on, ever more.