Somebody give me one of two things:
a top hat full of noble blood
or a statue of me wearing the hat.
You can call me lord of a lovely
principality. Isn’t it the same thing?
Isn’t a statue of the imaginary me
the same as the red juice of privilege?
I hereby declare that they are the same.
If you give me the blood
and the statue as well, won’t I be
regal and in charge? Go get me
the title as well, something on parchment.
I want to choose who I am
and discard what I was raised to be. It matters less,
it seems, than what I decide a scrap of me
has to report. All that history to wrestle
that once could exalt or drown a person
and now all we have to do is check a box
or stuff one and we are what we claim.
Easy enough for everyone.
I’m enjoying the stony hat on my head now.
I’m enjoying the hell out of my pale marble face.
I’m dreaming of what it all means,
when all it means is that I’m dreaming.