these thoughts that are but
mine are like a signature, i
now surmise, or a finger
print. or maybe they are,
wholly, if they could be
gathered, put together,
at least mathematically,
theoretically, if not (can
i even say?) physically,
moreso than what is
muscular, skeletal
or corpuscular,
the stuff that is me.
so here i am, not
what you can literally
see, not the brilliantly
designed yet flawed
and puncturable organic
conglomeration that any
one might automatically,
with me, of me, associate.
but this assemblage of
thoughts, this relatively
miniscule pile of notions
and desires, this hodge
podge of fears that
have accrued in ways
pavlovian or else in ways
meandering and illogical,
this swirling admixture
which also includes the
residue of dreams and
whatever else might fit
within the limitations of
memory, are these not
more of who or what i
am than any clump or
chunk that might be
jabbed or grabbed
at, punctured or
bruised? just this
evolving jumbled set
of thoughts that are
more apparitional
than physical or
visual, and so
less quantifiable
or at least
impossible to
gather—this is
who i am, is
what i, immortally,
may yet
continue for
at least some
dissipating length
of time
to be.
