“Must have let out a now-I’ve-seen-it-all sigh when,”

Must have let out a now-I’ve-seen-it-all sigh when,

aboard another Mexican Riviera Well-Being Cruise™,

a woman much older than I asked about our involvement

in The Secret. Here’s what I didn’t say: we pocketed $500,000

from the first 200,000 DVDs, Rhonda Byrne is a harpy.

Everything else was said, for I am nothing if not honest,

honesty being a satisfying life experience all its own.

But back to the sigh, which I admit was a little pockmarked,

a little nest for the competing narratives, you see. It’s no secret that

I don’t need facts as much as the average person, which serves me

quite well in this, the business of speaking to and beside destiny.

But as the question transmuted itself (nonphysical to physical),

it was as if I’d foregone my pre-show rituals: the extravagant

low-carb breakfast, the 37-minute bubble bath, the prophet is mic’d up,

the prophet is mic’d up chant. Instead, I remembered reading

somewhere that documentaries are a constant negotiation

between the filmmaker and their viewers. On? Off?

abraham held me like foam between the records.