such crooks—I mean,
look at us
stealing dates, furtive
glances, midnight
snacks, inhalations—it’s like
we’re born
to be ingrates who
go through life begging
to be caught
with our red hands
in an existential cookie jar—
and not for the rush,
or because it’s
"who we are," but
just to practice for
armageddon—
that feeling of sitting
one foot from the judge’s chair
with that very same hand
on a stiff bible, stating
nothing
but the truth,
and the whole
truth, so help us:
that Telos and Logos
could never understand
how damn often
to be caught
with our red hands
in an existential cookie jar—
and not for the rush,
or because it’s
"who we are," but
just to practice for
armageddon—
that feeling of sitting
one foot from the judge’s chair
with that very same hand
on a stiff bible, stating
nothing
but the truth,
and the whole
truth, so help us:
that Telos and Logos
could never understand
how damn often
there are no such things
as good explanations.
