At times I feel like the I. M. Pei of bullshit

and then the Ai Wei Wei of oily truths
that stucco the Hoover Dam, and then
like a fresh-shorn lamb come winter
in England, picking on cobblestone walls.
At times I feel like nothing at all, like a baby
yet to be pinned in the womb. At times,
I feel like clair de lune. At times I feel 
like love bugs snapped in a rorschach, maybe
like magazines stacked in a waiting room 
waiting to garble a glare, though then
like a windsock gargling chortling horse hair—
bristling sheen of a Chincoteague, fizzling
slobber seduced from a sleuth of Nair cans, twice 
like the crepitant limb of a synchronized
swimmer entwined with a handsy bus bench
west of Peoria, Arizona, clumsily busking
her flutter kicks all the way back to Kanab or
Pie Town or Truth or Consequences.