Just another aging ape in a restaurant
dining on some descended
dinosaur — chicken, maybe.
That’s what I appear to be
to others. Little do they know
who I really am –I can’t
tell them, of course. That would be
unrectifiable. It’s how I get by,
you see — allowing others
to define me by mistake and then
living up to the wrong billing.
All I’ve ever done, in fact,
has flowed from the mistakes
of others. My one true path has been
threaded through falsehood and
this ape, this unevolved fat boy
chewing with his mouth closed
in spite of his wanton instincts,
is satisfied. The chicken is good.
The people who think I’m good
are good with me. What I am to myself
is ridiculous and unimportant
to them. Inside though? Inside
the well fed body, the glittering
at my core would blind them
if they could see. They never will.
Let them think me small and ashamed,
or grandiose and self-important.
Everyone’s got it right as long
as they let me be.
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