Looking Closely

I was over at the graveyard, looking at the way graves recede to mere depressions. Shallow pools in which leaves rot and you're left with a tannic mass that could cure old sneakers. Death, and dying, are a fact of life. You reach an age. Jesus, I think, holy shit, I'm old, and my contemporaries are dying. Old acquaintances, that I haven't seen in years, occasionally call. Usually late at night. Last night, for instance, a lady friend from the dim reaches of pre-history called to see if I was that person she had once known, and I remembered her, conjured an image of us love-making in the back seat of a '68 Impala, in moonlight, in a cemetery in north Florida. In those halcyon years after birth control and before HIV. Cemeteries were great places to fuck, because the cops never patrolled them. She'd found some of my writing online, assumed it was me, and with a bit of detective work, had squirreled out that I now lived in southern Ohio. No secrets anymore. Kroger knows what I eat. Not really, because I got my Kroger card with a false identity. I've found it useful to have a false identity, to make it difficult to track me down. Right now I'm a drummer in a rock band in Texas, I have credit cards and everything, a driver's license, an AARP card, a key to the city of Austin, inscribed by the mayor. It's wonderful being a printer, you can fabricate anything. Truth be known, and expression I love to use, because it means nothing, it's not difficult to create a false persona. I find, for instance, that I talk differently when C and I are talking about installing a show, than I do with someone who is asking me for a cigaret and they can't even roll one for themselves: I hate people who can't roll cigarettes; they're not to be trusted. What? Oh yeah, what we were talking about, wait, my memory is fading, I'm pretty sure I paid my land taxes, insured the Jeep for another half-year, paid the phone company for their sporadic service. What else could you imagine?