The Secret of my Success

Stepping very carefully, here. There is so much that I have gotten wrong, so many twists in the fabric. I am wrapping my knee in hopes of convincing this bursa to disburse, and it's like that: desire has a tendency to bunch and cling to itself, and if you don't get it smooth, you'll end up cutting off your circulation and doing more harm than good.

But. I am remarkably alive and well. My sheer animal vigor astonishes me: I feel wolfish, intent, unburdened: the picaro of my own novel. The crow is strong in me: endless curiosity and indifference to pain, jeu d'esprit and a desire to mess with other creatures just to liven things up. I am neither tidy nor kind, but there is a gloss to me. Adding my bit of blight, as Kay Ryan would say:

briefly swaggering the

swagger of his

aggravating ancestors

down my street.

And every time

I like him

when we meet.

Still -- or, rather, because -- carefully, carefully, walk carefully here. Never make precisely the same mistake twice, that's my motto: always introduce a variation. That's the secret of my success.