I've Lost My I.D.

How am I supposed to get about without being able to identify who I am? I've spent 50 years looking for it. I have looked everywhere for it. In bushes. In deserts. In prairies. Oceans. Rivers. Up mountains. Down in the valleys. Humping a backpack through mudslides. Exhausting a lifetime a visitation rights to couch space in Raymond Allen's immaculate bachelor flat.

Waiting out hurricanes. Being stranded in a cornfield in India during monsoons with wife one who actually laughed in the face of indecision for the first time during the course of our run.

"The Eiffel Tower the Taj Mahal were mine to see on clearer days. "

I've had bunches and oodles of bunches of womenses help me look.

With money in the bank. Or flat on my back. Flat on their backs--

"over, under, sideways, down. Long ways, short ways. . ."

They usually gave up helping me look for my ID when it became clear to them that unless they snuck out the back do' under the pretense of going to the 7 -Elebben for a six pack while they could still afford one, they'd eventually lose their IDs too.

I've even searched on every imagineable planet of the mind, blackhole of the soul, nova of the ego and misbegotten moon of rational thinking.

I've tried disguises. Long hair. Short hair. In uniform. A dude with a lot of friends all around the world. A freak of nature without a single friend anywhere.

Didn’t find it in the suburbs. Inner cities. On the streets of every major city in the world I can think of where I thought I might find my ID. I turn 51 next month.

Fifty Fucking One!


Fucked out. Drugged out. Boozed out. Shouted out. Burned out.

Complained about. Dreamed of. Forgotten about. Substituted for. Spoken of.

Convinced of and believing in nothing but willing to give it a try as there isn't much left on the buffet table of feebleminded design.

There are a few IDs I haven't tried and won't.

For example, I could grow a beard, gain fifty pounds, walk with a cane and become an elegant gay middle aged scholar but the only problem with this ID is that A. If I wanted to be a scholar, I would have endured two more years of pretense and cheap white wine and gotten a PhD in lit.

Then there’s B.I would sooner develop a taste for canned spinach than put a cock in my mouth and frankly speaking--although I am eternally grateful for having experienced receiving uncountable, blissful BJs--one of life's (if not life's) greatest "Wow", I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone--man or woman--would put a dripping man noodle in their mouths. We pee out of that thing for Christ sakes.

Anywhozzits. I distress.

I could be a homeless guy.

Lose weight. Grow lots of hair. Walk the streets of a major US megapolis muttering to myself while I pick up empty aluminum cans. Sleep under bridges--But I have never been a work outdoors type. Can't take up the homeless trade without a taste for outdoors. It goes with the trade.

What's left? Two things come to mind.

Tennis and Heroin. Yin. Yang.

Does recreational opiate abuse mix with tennis? Don’t know. Need to find out.

Why put off regular exercise another day? Why make it last minute?

Why wait until I get my very own cancer to become addicted to morphine? Why make it very last minute?

I wish I had bigger feet. If I had bigger feet, I could find a new spot where I haven't drilled a bullet through the skin and bone.