Tall Paul

I knew a fellow when I was 17.
Tall Paul we called him.
He was one of those guys
I hoped some day to be as cool as.
Later in life, when we were in our
early twenties, I met Paul
for a beer. We were talking
about what we'd been reading.
Paul said he was into Truman Capote.
Ignoramus that I was then
(and maybe still am),
I thought he was talking about
Al Capone. "You mean the guy
with the vault?" I asked.
I will never forget the look
on Paul's face. No, he explained,
he meant the writer. He eyed me
suspiciously, not yet convinced
I wasn't pulling his leg.
Here he'd taken me for a literate
person. I wasn't, not nearly so much
as I made out. And in this way, I have
blundered my way through my life,
hopeless, helpless, just barely
making enough sense for folks
to believe I'm compos mentis.
Bullshitting is my game.
The truth is I've lied to
everyone I ever met, aggrandizing
my life to some extent or other,
augmenting my experiences
as necessary, making myself out
to be whatever person was needed.
I lied on every job application
I ever filled out, and I filled
out hundreds. The fact that I
couldn't have told you
the difference between
Al Capone and Truman Capote
was just one outward sign of
the blind ignorance which once
hid precariously beneath
the surface of my skin.
Still, the ignorance is there,
though in not nearly the over-
abundance it used to be, and
still, I blunder my way, proudly,
head held high, hoping no one
figures out what a fool I am.
If bullshitting is an art,
then I have taken the art
to heights it never knew
it could reach. I've always been
an artist. If, in some
absurd universe, I had to choose
just one art, I have little doubt
it would be bullshit.

(2008)