I hereby announce, publish and declare
that I will not, I say not from here on out, consent 
to be the dumb punching bag 
of my own moon-mad mutant mind. 
Nor the innocent (nor otherwise) 
victim of vicissitudes, 
nor the crowned chump of circumstance, 
nor the whirling dervish 
of whim and whimsies.
I will not, repeat not, (either now, 
or in the nonexistent future) 
be anything or anybody 
that you think I am, that you wish I were, 
that I wish I were. That I ought to be. No, not me.
Not me. Nobody’s patsy. Nobody’s fool. 
Not God, not man, not beast.
Not even myself (whoever that might be).
All that is water under the bridge.
All that is chaff that’s flown.
But whatever glinting stone remains of mystery —
after the chickens have gone home to roost,
after the deluge, after the stock market crash.
Whatsoever ineluctable presence persists, 
when that house of cards
in which somebody (who called himself 
myself) once lived, once died — collapses. 
We’ll meet in that field.