Not Knowing
They’re everywhere these days — politicizing everything.
I find them digging through my hamper at night,
sniffing my underwear.
“We will find our evidence!” they yell,
just before slithering down into my toilet bowl.
Suck-toads,
subhuman rat-dogs,
they once cried out “Judas!”
like a complete and total jack off
at a Bob Dylan concert.
Bob responded, simply, “I don’t believe you.
You’re a liar,”
just before tearing into the next song.
I roam the city looking for honest conversation;
there’s none to be found.
Everyone’s suspicious
that everybody else
is suspicious
of them.
So I’ll stick to my books,
time to re-read “After the Storm”;
I still don’t know what the hell that story means,
nor do I understand why it grips me the way it does.
“First there was the bird, then me, then the Greeks, and even the birds got more out of her than I did.”
— Well done, Papa
I’m sure someone somewhere’s written about the story
gutted it of its magic,
but I don’t give a damn.
I like that I don’t know
what it means,
and even more than that
I like knowing
that I don’t know
what it means.
That sentiment goes for a lot of things.
People ought to give it a try,
some day,
rather than spending all their time
sniffing each other’s underwear.
