WHO AM I?

Many people ask who I am. They mean inside, where they think it counts. My outsize outside glitters until you blink. Opened up by force or flattery, buttered and basted and bastard and baked to plump perfection, I might be revealed as a combination of butchery, turkerey, fakery, and watchmaking.

I am a vengeful god. Meanwhile, while mean, we, well, meaning, I am mysterious because unspeakable, avant because obscure, unseen like a water quota, sanctified by sleight of hand, sporting or supporting a drying fall on a burning deck, drawing a through-line across to-do lists. Sometimes I need to catch it, the spark, while, unwell, before I forget my point, before the sentence ends, but then what is a sentence but a prison cell. I say a sentence is what I say it is, and I say the hell with it. I live in fragments, leaving loose, never losing because never admitting there’s a finish line. Oh, that point? You point rudely, so I turn the finger you give me to my advantage. That is what I meant when I said, correctly, that the goal was.

Many may wonder why some of the world’s biggest shitheads attain leadership positions. They may well. Wonder, attain. Deign, disdain. Attack, infiltrate. Either way, wonderful. Spell the name, right? Part of it is that they stick around. Part of it is that they stick it, their oar, whatever, in whatever. If it doesn’t fit, they twist until something gives. Call it prising. False priding. Leveraged prizing. Cheating, okay? How many rooms you have? However many they believe it or, not, parrot. Polly wanna billion senseless followers make me what but nobody makes me anything, so I am nothing but what I say.

Who am I? I cherish templates, spreadsheets, paradigms, fixatives. Past performances guarantee no future. Results? I survey users for feedback by show of force—I am, it is, all a show, of course, except when the force kills as many ingrates as possible—and my good people regurgitate findings as plastic gadgets that replace hands. That saves labor so the savings get passed to my General Chaos, my Major Steakholder, my privates, oh and don’t forget my white Supremacy Courtship, while beyond that charming circle the severed fingers fidget. My gizmos give out and fill land for millennia, like explosive diarrhea gifted to the future.

Who am I? I eat off your plate. Okay, no, I eat your plate, say you did it, then push my palate to the floor, say you did it, then complain because the proportions are too small. Whatever I say, you are it. Unless I say, King Me, like they do in chess. Like I do, I mean. I am unbeatable, grandest master wizard of the odds and get evens a gazillion times over.

Behind the gold curtain is who I am. I am who. I am what, where, when, why, woe, whoah is me, me, me. It is I am who orders in. Order, order, order, we must have order. On the floor, in the court, at the border. Stop the carnage, I order, and my angels, I mean my agents, Mordor a few more. That makes me a killer by proxy vote. What’s a few more of anything unless it glistens.

Let my gilt rub off on you, and you too will, because your will. Is your will in order? Hire a lawyer but don’t pay. I have a lot of friends who are lawyers or above the law. They live in gated, plated, moated palaces where the views are biggest and beautifulest, all the way mountings from Rushmore to Neverrest.

Oh, I say, can you see me? Look on my works and my doesn’t.