if i were to, say, author my own destruction,
i’d do it with a pen;
or, rather, a pixel. I am afraid it’ll

be nothing more than mediocre
should my name (blah) be the thing to hang over it,
dangling too close to me. yes, anonymity

is just the thing for me. i shall be
“Samuel Clementz,” i think. yes.. genius.
disclaimer: the end of “me” is not because of low self-esteem
or unhappiness or cowardice

but because i want to again play
dangerously youthfully — unusually —
as if i were able to pull the distant past up to me, close to me
and be in it again, but differently:

swinging on the swing-set during a downpour;
leaning back and swinging through the rickety, rusted gauntlet
with you
next to me;
waiting, anticipating the drip’s impending drop
as my little eye spies it forming on the crossbar
wiggling with increased accumulation;
and when it hits the crown of your head, you are dead.

see? that’s the game. but this time i die.

i can no longer delay
i must choose:

should i kill my profile,
or have a cuppa coffee?

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