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.
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.
that everybody else
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,
rather than spending all their time
sniffing each other’s underwear.