Look! It’s me.

Today,
I dismantled the chords of a song
and laid them in the sun.
Too bad they didn’t spell out my name.

Today,
I crumpled the sky like a towel.
I wanted to see the other side,
the politics of planets,
and verify
if physics obeys its laws when we are watching.

Scratch that.
The weirdo must follow our laws.

But it’s not fun
when celestial bodies are not self-aware.
Stars don’t care about trajectories,
nor do planets quibble about their names.

I only want to look into space
to hear asteroids call me out.

For a price,
I can have my name
stuck on a new planet.
I can plant a flag on it and keep it fluttering,
set up CCTV cameras around the mast,
and broadcast the live feed,
get viewers to click buttons,
and reserve space on Planet Me.
Narcissism is cute.
I look at myself in the mirror,
and pull back my hair.
This is Malcolm. Be like Malcolm.
No wait, don’t.
Be like Bill. Be like Baba Ramdev.
Or just be who you are,
unless the you is just horrible.
You be the judge. No pressure.
I’ll leave you to that now.

I must find a hole in the sky,
or trace its zipper,
pull it back
and get away before they call a vote
on renaming my planet.

I am not afraid of change,
perhaps of dying,
and certainly, of having no colour
when the light glances off my face.
I am afraid
when I create my brand-new language
it may sound like yours,
even if I roll my tongue differently
or shoot the words from a different corner of my mouth.

Maybe not,
if I take your words
and push apart the sounds between them.
With more breathing space,
I can learn to kiss differently.
I can stall for time
so that when you start talking
I can sound like your echo.
But wait,
I started out wanting to coin my own words.

Damn!
I feel like I’m running on a Mobius strip.
I see you ahead in the distance.
I look back
and see another me
and another you
behind the other me.

If we twist the running track just enough,
we’ll make it look like infinity.

I’ll ensure the Yous overlap
and the Mes don’t.

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