I think I’ve become
a cynic
due to everybody’s lies—
hell, bullshit won its way
into the White House
yet again ;
while the richest man on
Earth
posts nothing but
fabrications
every hour, would even make
Pinocchio cringe,
and if he had a wooden nose,
it would be a walkway
to the heavens, saving
all the rocket fuel
it takes to reach the moon.
But I’m sick of Trump
and Elon, know that X
should stand for wrong ,
like the scarlet
pencil marring
every answer—
on my numbers
in grade 9 math,
when I thought I’d pulled
a fast one, saying tallies
are subjective
so who’s the one to say
they’re incorrect?
I remember that my
teacher wasn’t fooled,
asking with a sneer
if I’d studied
Kierkegaard,
saying philosophy
is the oil
of one-hundred thousand
snakes,
that everything’s
a scam:
the email
from the supposed
lotto winner, offering
60 million
for the cost of ocean
shipping , that it’s nothing
compared to the gold
in which I’m paid,
or the old man
on the corner
passed-by daily,
who pretends that he is
deaf, boombox on the sidewalk
as he pans,
vowing to buy Vivaldi
just to prove
he cannot hear.
Andreas Gripp
November 25, 2024
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