With fingers made of dry-erase markers,
he picks and chooses lines
to paint a picture of his life,
like a chalkboard writer
who cheats in detention
from watching too many of Bart Simpson’s
Maybe he refers to himself in the third person
or the future tense,
or the revised choices of
a “choose your own adventure” novel,
and spins a golden Rumpelstiltskin story
to make his made-up life believable:
“I wear an ace bandage around my right wrist;
It’s not for the reason you think,
I’m not an athlete.
Nor am I a lonely latchkey teenager
who dreams to be alone with a magazine after school
and tucks a chair under the doorknob for security
because there are no locks to my bedroom.
That joystick wasn’t at fault for causing my carpal tunnel.
No that’s not me.
Not anymore, at least.”
He won’t explain who he is on stage;
rather, he’ll take on the personality
of who he wants to be,
like the dreams we sent on the Voyager:
an open letter to the galaxy.
Take it or leave it be,
but the unlikely spaceship
is still reaching for the stars.