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appear on the flipside of a nickel, or as a balloon floating down Fifth Avenue; no one will give my name to a variety of rosebush, or a way to throw fastballs, or a beetle with four strange, silvery wings. They say my spit's helixes will swim in the children of my children but that's nothing more than a simple whip graft, the way a pear tree is bullied into fruit. My heart is one yellow marble waiting in a swarm of yellow marbles, waiting for someone to chalk lines of play, waiting for the thumb of God. Inertia is a poor man's immortality. Even the ancient recipes have failed us now— no more gilded eyelids or canopic jars, no more baklava baking in the crypt of my jaw. Call me selfish, but who doesn't dream of being both kite and wind, boat and ocean? I want to be the ball and the bat and the mound and the sweat and the grass. I want to be the vampire who drinks a tall cool glass of me so he can live forever. (from I Was the Jukebox  )
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