I was James Dean for about 10 seconds,

spinning out of control and into a head-on collision.

They asked after, was it an accident

or on purpose-

to which I replied with a nod,

followed by laughter.

The true criminal never reveals the crime-

guilt

or innocense.

They bend and break on the inside,

but keep the facts strapped close

to the chest.

It is those pounding realizations,

those thumping, unruly neighbors,

that when asked what happened,

calmly close their doors and shut their blinds.

I was Elvis for 30 minutes,

singing prose in my backyard

with rock’n roll music blaring.

And when the ambulance came, 

I was two people.

I was combined, intertwined,

fully and happily

incapacitated.

In the morgue

when the lights are down

and your body is inside a grey canvas,

you can paint all the colors you want

with no one to criticize the shade or volume.

I wanted so badly to be in those doors,

underneath that wall

that I curled my insides

until they couldn’t talk.

And now I’m there,

the non-existing platform

of exuberance and disdain,

the only place you can combine

two different entities

and call them by the same name.

I was James.

I was Elvis.

I was walking on egg shells and I was

tragic.

Oh, to pin-point when all the humility

bottled up and went off

like a beautiful firework

all over the innocent bystanders.

It surely would be a magical moment

to realize exactly when

you discovered yourself,

and when you decided

the monotony of your lengthy timeline

was still somehow worth it.

Pause. Rewind. Start over.