Then call me Queequeg
like Dana Scully’s mail,
I’ve got no sea-legs
I type but cannot sail
and at the keyboard
I’m a soft machine,
like I’m a ripcord,
ending the holocene
as I’m unfolding,
I am a parachute
there’s no handholding,
I’ll only execute
as I’m exploding,
I’ll be a cloud of cloth
when I am coding,
I’m cool like planet Hoth.