I’m a something, a something elsewhere
extraterrestrial thought with alien hair
and left-behind giggle, with cigarette jump
pulse back digger religion,
forgiven game pack smoke rider
on a warp plane to the back door.

If I understood a whiskey scented minute
of the identity I’ve lifted from the cookie truck,
if I were enough of a problem to organize
a solution for, if I had a wallet
thicker than a hippo tongue, thyroid lover
bankroll, meaning infested puppy guy —

it would be easier being me, not the wet sand
of the sidewalk, the knife wheel gyroscope
on some fascinating spin journey, musical daybed,
artist bathroom flush with potential mates,
crystal mythology partner, priest of the hole
in the pocket, small dirty lord of the problematic;

if I were something somewhere elsewhere,
something, not a me, not a him or her,
an I with an I with star eyes.  If I were that,
would be geared up and mechanical, queenery,
kingmaker wigmaker, trying to stay alive as I do,
as I will…or I would if I were elsewhere.