It’s that little spark when a green banner with,
“I want to be him” runs quickly, spastically
through your brain.
You try to stifle it. You mutter,
“No, don’t think that.”

It doesn’t matter who he is.
You want to be him.
You want to consume his essence,
sometimes you even want his smell:
it’s the Pacific put in a glass bottle
and sold for 200 dollars.

I think there are a million lessons
written down on wrinkled, aged paper.
Each one says “Be someone else.
Be someone else. Could you just be someone else!?”

Yet, you’re not someone else, and you
were ill-informed. The banner read differently.
There was no banner, actually,
just a spark, which was nothing but a
neurological malfunction.