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When I saw the Witnesses of Jehovah approach my house through my window I dressed in my favorite steel silver tights, removed my shirt, and quickly tattooed a raven without wings smoking a cigarette flexing his calf muscles on my chest.  I called the bird Stefán Moldorov.

            They knocked three and a half times until I answered sipping pineapple juice from a three-liter bottle looking imperial.  They overlooked my ensemble.  Stefán melted away with my sweat.

            One of them said: we have come for your soul.

            I’d lost that old thing long ago when I threw out my Persian carpet with my prettiest dining room table. 

            So we danced around their conveniently sized Bible sipping the juice without my gin and sang about being Christian.  The song, though, sounded like a Hindu chant.  My Greek neighbors, whose confusion was famous, became more confused till they melted their hommus.  Then we were all Buddhist and the parable lost traction.

            There have been frequently observed questions and correlations between my missing self and my inability to take people seriously.  Humor, I have said, is separate.  Hiding in another part of my body under a lamp with a blown light bulb.

With thanks to Henri Michaux & Max Jacob.  Also, I suppose, Snoop Dogg.