titled 99

It reminds me of that book by James Frey
where he talks about a large quantity small
pieces and uses, ingeniously, the ethical
constraints of doctor-patient privilege to
wrap, cocoon-like, his own questionable
ethics more tightly than the high E string
on a Telecaster two turns too taunt.

Bachelor-like I sit eating frozen pizza with
an absurdly grotesque fork and Beethoven's
only opera playing in the background. The
sound of the keys as I type, left hand clicks
right hand clacks, channeling August 2005
when I drank red wine and messaged with
my left hand, procrastinated with my right.

"There are more lives than this one," said
Krishna, "but you do not remember them all."

I do.