Some truths feel valuable
even though
they're trivial;
others, we're compelled
to communicate
even though they're unhelpful.
To write—there are no words
somehow feels,
to these
impossibly well-organized
Turing machine-souls,
like both.
It's a perfect poem, and
a full-proof
device. It tends to work
its rational Good
by nature
of it's own outlandish falsehood. Or,
when it doesn't work—even better;
that just means
it's working—
perfectly.
