My Name is Millions

Interpellate or hail me, whichever act you choose,

I will remain—I am remaining—symbolizing for you.

 

My name is Millions. My names are many.

Call me an adjective, a verb, a lexicon, a curse.

Or signify me as a tree, an industry, perhaps that

Method of practice, or artifice of doctrine.

In fact, say your name. Right now, say it.

Say the names of your lover, family members, children,

Friends, enemies, people you know, never people you don’t know.

I am those names. But I am not them, just as I am not you.

Whatever name you choose, I will always be,

For I am, aren’t I?

 

Read each word. Say each letter. I am.

To say is to be: I am that.

But not you who utter, you are not. Only I am.

Be thankful that you are not. Besides, how could you be?

Where were you when I my primary avatar

Was spat out by a hairy caveman voicing inquiry or alarm?

 

Sometimes, I could be the mother,

The entity of caring, loving, of hospice.

I could be the phallus the mother desires,

That same phallus you wish to become only

To please and satisfy your mother for all that she

Has done for you—Go, and ask my other Names: Lacan, or

Kristeva, Freud, the mind-men, for more details.

 

Rationally, I should be the father—he who

Castrates the child from the mother, to enter my

Hollow empyrean. Never am I the child.

You are the child. You listen. You obey. My laws are final

In this finite chaosmos stretching towards entropy.

Yet, in lieu of arbitrary logistics falsified by random police,

I am not the father. I am but the things the fathers enforces upon

You, dear child, sweet child of the mind.

 

My sculptured hands are battlefields where storms clash to

Rain down and fertilize barren farmlands.

My painted eyes view the totality of my subjects

In this empty realm full of symbols bound by symbols.

And my parchment lips try their best to force

A child to become a man—to realize, and be free.

 

Ultimately, I am what you say. Say it, and I am.

Allow myselves to own the things which the world possesses.

By being your subject, I am become the slave-master.

 

Call me the cycle, the continuum, the endless horizon

You cling to so desperately.

Recite a poem, a story, and unravel me.

I insist: unlock my secrets, my million names,

Dissect my blackened body to view my organs and look at

My still dead heart for you to see how it works.

Exalt the pious enforcers of my names for their play of genius,

The word choices, the imagery, the dictions.

Praise them, damn you!

And when you find me, there in that darkness which you concocted,

Don’t forget whose fault it was that you ended up in that pit.

 

My name is Millions.

Surrender to me now.