the medium is the message
—Marshall McLuhan
My cat likes to saunter
across my keyboard,
spelling some unknowable
truth
that a future
archaeologist
will one day
read and wonder,
what the printed
sheet of paper
really meant ;
but if I’m savvy
for a change, I’ll
wisely take the credit
for the text,
claiming that it’s
innovative, a post-
poetry masterpiece,
that mokrohihtjlkkbjojeks
may one day be the title
of a book, ciwhexjgheias
in the footsteps
that will follow,
each word like the ball
of a British lotto,
spinning round and round
until it exits, joining
a string of numbers
worth a million,
and it’s then
I will recline,
my feet upon
the ottoman, smoking
a Cuban cigar,
let another
do the labour
for a change,
win me a literary
prize, allow me to be
the toast
of any town,
as I whirlwind
‘round the world
in 80 days—
in a limo, not a balloon—
knowing my feline
confidante
will surely protest,
hiss at the whirling
heights,
as I feign
to all the planet
it was me,
telling students of
McLuhan
to hold my beer—
that the message
is the medium
today,
keeping kitty
pumped with catnip,
her caterwauling
voice
under wraps,
dreaming of an
endless
stream of letters,
so lost in all her
slumber
that she’ll never
have the chance
to betray our
secret.
Andreas Gripp
November 30, 2024
Andreas Gripp
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