thorn in the lover

I woke up this morning and thought about what you said the other day; how you hoped I wouldn’t turn out to be like all those other guys.

Like Reginald Lukas, who only smiled whenever somebody said "Cheese!"

Or Takeuchi Hidemichi, who smelled like he owned a fish hatchery.

Or Crispin Dumont, who lived in a motel room near Highway 61.

Or Louis-Sebastien Aubert, who kept insisting he was an "entrepaneur."

Or Charlie Crowder who just liked to sit on a park bench all day long.

Or Mike Mcgahan who played the ukulele in the nude.

Or Leonard Lagrand who drank all day and played solitaire all night.

Or Laszlo Roskam, who said he was the saddest son-of-a-b***h you’d ever want to meet.

Or Manny Malkoff who believed he was going to be the next something or other.

Or Florian Schultz, who was always falling and breaking some bone in his body.

Or Mohammad Lawson who only said his prayers when he was in front of a judge.

I thought about all those guys and tried to figure out why you’d even think I’d be anything like them.

Is it because I prefer to be alone on Christmas, writing poetry?

Because my New Year’s resolution is to read all the works of Dr. Seuss?

Because I still eat Chef Boyardee and Cap’n Crunch cereal?

Because I like to play my Djembe African drum in the middle of the night?

Because I observed Holy Communion during last year’s Passover Seder?

Because I wear brown shoes with a tuxedo?

Because I haven’t outgrown "The Catcher in the Rye"?

Because people often describe me as being "wild" and "unkempt?"

Because I never walk in a straight line?

Because I like to drink with the winos on Potrero Hill?

Because of my obsession with movies that contain graphic violence and biblical themes?