"I Am the Unreliable Narrator"

                

I could say it. I could say I'm sorry
you trusted me til page 429 when a crevasse
opened below your feet and you heard me laughing
as you fell and realized the Void wants you.
I could say that but would you believe me?
And why would you believe me? Aren't you listening?
I am the Unreliable Narrator. I lie all the time,
because I don't really believe in any of this,
the structure which I'm composing, and of which
I'm wholly composed. But what if I'm really
telling the truth. Isn't it all a mindfuck,
the way Satan calls God the Unreliable Narrator
and vice versa. Most people believe all gods
Unreliable Narrators with Loki complexes,
the ultimate practical jokes left by dead cultures,
plastic dogshit on a velvet wing chair.
Why do you keep following me even now? Can't you see
I'm just walking, humming, and I have no destination?
Jabes was sort of rewriting the Bible
as told by the Unreliable Narrator,
and Kafka was a totally Unreliable Narrator
in life as well as on the page. You might say
how can we be friends if I can't trust you,
and I answer in all sincerity, "I can't trust myself."
I watch your face to see if pathos is accepted everywhere, like Visa.
Some people throw my book across the room when they realize
what I have been doing, and it hurts me, as though it were
my spine crashing against the futon, not just my book's.
Probably you don't get angry at the author, though that's
my creator and I could blame this mess on her or him.
But she or he would run from the room laughing, pointing
a finger back at me, insisting I did it all on my own.
What a dramatic asshole. Listen, I may be stuck here being Unreliable
but you can trust me. You can lean on me. I know
how to track through this wasteland and get you somewhere.
It may not be what those liars promised in the blurbs,
but it will be something better than that. I swear.
Something really fucked-up and unusual. Fateful.
You don't really care about the author. You like the book.
And I know the book. I wrote vast tracts of it.
When you finally come out of the wilderness of my mind,
you will find yourself missing it. The Reliable Narrator
is a pussy. He will give you cocoa and tuck you in at night.
But you know I'm outside the window, and aren't you just
a little bit curious what I'm doing there? I mean
I didn't die on page 430. I'm the one you will write
imaginary postcards to the rest of your life. Me.
Not the jerk who stitched fate like a potholder at the end
of that book. Not the name of that geek on the spine.
It was all about me, and my Unreliability. My horsefeathers rocked.
There's precious little you can count on here, in this cosmic joke,
but I think you should follow me. I can't tell you why
but if I could you know you wouldn't trust me. You're like that.
And I'm like this. I think we were meant to be. I give good story.
I was born a poor black child in a mare's nest. Pedunculated
like a clam. I escaped author, page and narrative. Like Lucifer.
It's been all downhill and fun from there. At least sit
on my lap a little bit and see how it feels. Can I put my hand
here, right here? Would that kill you? I see you smile,
and you don't even know you're smiling. I want to tell you things
about the author he would kill me for knowing. Let's go somewhere private.
No, leave the fucking book right there.
We don't need that anymore.