My evil twin was at the show
last night, twitching like a nervous
jarvis cocker, turning his head to ask
how he knew I wasn’t the evil one.
I once bathed in the blood of evil
twinnings — run down in fast food
parking lots, ground into value meals
sold to lonesome desperadoes.
My evil twin teaches me to play
the didgeridoo, how to cook chicken
broth over an open flame up all
night, coked out of our minds.
I once ordered chicken Santeria
at a ritual cocktail bar in a mid-size city
marooned on the coast. It cost me
indeterminate credibility in certain circles.
My evil twin taught me the meaning of
snuffling, the sparkling emptiness
of charity, how to download terabytes
illegally from fundamentalist regimes.
I once asked my evil twin for melted
plastic air freshener, for the sameness
of vacant stares, for double or nothing
odds on apocalyptic footwear.
My evil twin found me sleeping
at the end of my life, whispered
it is time, said some words over me,
breathed me back to healthy alternatives.
I once met the Buddha on the road,
fired point blank and missed. It was
an old style shoot-out, it was the last
lie I would ever tell you.