What feeling is in the animal of my strangeness?
What nuance of outrage, struggle or insistence must
I maintain to hold so firmly to my imitations?
As a child, I stood on an oath, tall like a crucifixion
or a giant digressing. I said I can’t be gotten. I am
powerful – like a genie.
This is the poverty of disabled genius, this is the
tuberculosis of thinking – that without luck, no
great thing is worth imagining.
So I chewed Christ-thorns and rubbed my body with
the shrapnel of my fathers addictions and hung my
ear on the next word of his victim explanations.
Idea by idea, I committed to being crazy – ranting
and journaling, making every effort to describe in
detail why I am not amazing.