1969

I cringe when you declare

the landing on the moon

was just a fraud.

Sure, I’ve heard it all before

but you take it next-

level batshit, adding the moon itself

is a forge of steel & stone,

pockmarks of papier mâché,

a farce from the Pleaides,

its otherworldly makers

will return in ’48.

I reply if there’s no moon

then there’s no tides;

no jerks from tug-of-war.

The tides are a hoax, you say—

recalling your solo trek

to the Bay of Fundy—locals

hamming it up

for fifty bucks. And the starfish?

Props from Dollarama.

You have one on your fridge

to hold your tix—

LBJ killed JFK—

over cherry blossoms

sticking to his shoes.

A postcard signed

by Sasquatch. And we’re

all just a brain-in-a-vat—

convening beneath

The Dakota’s

secret stairwell. Chaired by

Yoko Ono—whose rendition of

American Pie 

is simply to die for.

If you’re really as daft

as this, quit your joe job

on the spot. Tear the cheque from

Bilderberg.

Stroll down Madison Ave—

buck naked—your hair a

bawl of flame.

Saunter to the edge

of pancake-Earth. Nod to the

man from Graceland

that you’re aware of who he is—

Guardian of the Gate,

UnMasker of the Moon,

the King of Every Truth

I’ve ever hid.

Andreas Gripp

March 22, 2026

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