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by Perchek Industrie on Unsplash

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.

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.

Written by

I’m not in the Matrix. I AM the Matrix.

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