They used to confuse me with John S. Hall,
which is a fucking big compliment
but hard to imagine.
Though we’re both white and bald,
I outweighed him by a shit-ton,
I never wore a hat,
I’m louder and more garrulous,
and I ain’t famous
(even in this hipster sort of way).

We shouldn’t have been confusable.
I mean, I did write poetry
in a style similar to his
– in a scene that he had helped popularize
and, again,
there was the bald thing…

So I would occasionally get people mentioning my old band, King Missile,
or my famous works, “Detachable Cock”
or “Martin Scorsese Was Way Cool.”
Instead of being really proud, though,
I’d become incredibly embarrassed
and try to get out of the interaction.

I’m not sure why.
Maybe because I wasn’t the other guy.
Maybe because I wasn’t prepared to explain the confused person’s error.
Maybe because I was a poseur trying to get off on John’s reputation.
Anyway you slice it,
I was ashamed and would always seek to escape.

Now, nobody makes the mistake.
John’s out and about more,
so people are more sure of his identity
or perhaps I’ve made my presence more known
(but probably the first thing).

I’m glad of that.
Anything to reduce my shame is a good thing.
A good goddamned thing.