When you’re the wealthiest, smartest man on planet Earth,
your bodily fluids dream of an endless stream of numbers
weaving into and out, out and back into a garbled sea.
Your tongue dreams of a granule of sand that contains
your every electronic-erotic-probiotic-genomic genius scheme.
When you step on a patch of dirt, you hear it taunting you:
Say the wrong word, and all the gold in the world will turn
back into manure. Each time you see a photograph of yet
another ex-wife or ex-lover, you hear a nuclear submarine
commander cry, Dive! Dive! Each time you see yet another
photo of yourself, you know this person’s an impersonator
hungry for your wealth and fame, your gonads and brain.
At night, when you close your eyes, you’re finally on Mars,
with thousands of other Elon Musks, each one as smart
and handsome and almost as hot as you. And when they see
the original, one-of-a-kind, primordial, irreplaceable
Elon Musk, these lesser Elons lower their eyes and bow,
ever so humbly, just as you programmed them to do.
,
John Bradley
.