In the places where I remember misbehaving
there are no floors. I once latched onto
my mother’s neck with my baby teeth. I once

had sex under a tree during a thunderstorm.
We were on a golf course. Nobody clapped politely
when it was all over. The thunder was all over everything     

already. The section "other information"
on my resume reads: Never been struck
by lightning but hopes to someday

for the story. This appears on the reverse
side above: Enjoys giving hickeys to see that shade
of purple and not because she’s possessive.

I am glad that no future employer has ever flipped
my resume over. I am already wearing my pajamas
at the interview; the ones with the pink elephants

so I’m not even being subtle about it. When asked
what my greatest assets are I say “sounds like
you’re an ass man” and chew on my thumb nail.

I only ever steal things that aren’t for sale:
bar beer steins, restaurant cutlery. I’m a time
thief and I’ll talk your ear off about my affinity

for Camel cigarettes and wine on sale at
Walgreens. I am always playing games
of hide and seek that no one else acknowledges.

The best part is I never lose. The worst part
is no one can hide with me. I do not want
to be alone. I never want to be found.

__

This is from a series of unhelpful instruction manuals which most often deal with paradox, as their titles suggest. This one looks most specifically at the desire to be a part of everything all at once while also desiring nothing more than to be absolutely alone. This extroverted introvert complex applies most aggressively to the desire to have a life of stories that involve fucking shit up. It's fun to have those stories. It's also hard to be that person always.