Self-Portrait Without a Mirror

It reached a point where I no longer needed

a mirror. I was tired of looking at myself, and I

already knew all of the flaws. Instead of my face,

I just paint a branch of the Japanese plum

in my front yard. My arms now generic

garden hoses. It seems right. I have exhausted

myself. My chest is the state of Maine, and my waist,

a cincture from a Catholic priest. I add that for the pure

irony of it. I choose for my left leg the torched arm

of the Statue of Liberty, my right, a Chinese scroll.

I am sure someone will determine some meaning in this,

but I mean to mean absolutely nothing. With age comes

the realization everything departs. My mother once

referred to her particular time in life as the departure

lounge, and I imagined a luxurious airport lounge serving

champagne and carved meats, chocolates, and cheeses.

I can’t even bother painting just one of these now.

I paint them in sets of twelve, twelve portraits of me

in which there is nothing of me. You want me to give

an explanation. I have none. I have done what I came

to do, and now, it is time for me to depart in what

can only be seen as an elegant manner, one devoid

of representation. I will not go to a monastery and sit

still while contemplating nothingness. I took a head start.

Here, my face is that of a lake, and there, a cinnamon bun.

People will have many things to say but, in the end,

let them say I was at least a little bit interesting.