I've Gone Long

selling short, and come near, earning no cigar,
nor noteworthy distinction so far. I’m hanging on
while Earth reconnoiters its priorities; I expect to
be riding the ascendant. The coming thing,
the emergent zeitgeist bears my name,
and will issue in unlimited edition. Thus
will my will extrude concrete product from
bare proof, in outline; all else will
hereforward be cloned. It’s a neat trick,
generally reliable; when it works, it works
like a dog. My alleged to be notable deficit
of charm will be experienced strictly
in the short term, and confined exclusively to
those within reach; an exactingly calculated
compensation for their sacrifice is intended
to be forthcoming, distributed by eventual funerary award
of my literary and artistic estate, apportioned
to each according to a ratio obtained
by placing the greater, from between
what suffering attends me, generally, and
what’s been attributed, heretofore, as pursuant
to maintaining a particular relation – ours,
for example – over, that which, certifiably,
I’ve brought to it, that is, what I’ve administered,
personally, to you. If the comparative value obtained
expresses a number less than one, then, surely,
your trials on my behalf have been legion,
and you will be compensated sufficiently
to countermand the persistence of memory.
If, on the other hand, the ratio expresses
a number greater than one, then you were
obviously pre-selected for special treatment, and
you owe me for my forbearance.