It’s a thin borderline
that separates me
from a full-blown personality disorder.
(or is it Nasa Cova now?)
back in a coma—
he’s awoken from his limp-dicked slumber
and he’s eyeing escorts
and flirting with friendlies
like a romantic in retrograde.
But at least he brought flowers,
Take Cadillac de Bergerac’s
he’s peeping on the ribs again
and what’s worse
has the audacity to refer
during his Evening treetop misadventures.
Just steal his fucking valve stems
and be done with it,
But Johnny Warpath won’t make
like a tree at all.
Turns out he doesn’t only come out
when I drink my gin.
he ain’t Dr. Jimmy, man.
He ain’t Mr. Hyde neither
and he ain’t hiding no more.
I don’t have a checkered past—
It’s more polkadot
Some of it I’ll never forget, but more of it I’ll never remember.
And thank heavens for that:
I’ve read the police blotters I’ve made cameos in
and if I can take their word for it
then I’d just rather leave certain things blotted, please.
How do I look on paper?
Well, that all depends on the paper.
(College transcripts and rap sheets, unfortunately, are two entirely different kinds of coverage.)
One of my finest moments:
Being asked by a cop what I was on probation for
without wasting any time
and smirking in his stupid fucking pig face
because it was true
and I thought myself
oh so clever.
The moral of the story?
Hubris gets you handcuffs
and my answer to the same question today
would be very different, indeed.