For real, these people distrust happy coincidences,
refuse to play games of consequence or truth,
bumble along on bad advice submitted
anonymously through layers of bureaucracy that
confiscated itself violently, called itself epithets and
trailed after covens of decision-makers punished by history,
maligned by repetitive legalese unleashed indignantly but
decisively upon crowded rivers that threatened rain.
Don’t allow yourself confidence to guess which
handshakes cloister butchery, which
backslaps harken new religions programmed for
destruction of libraries plundered
Hollywood-style by freedom-pointing
global computer networks operated by
laundry machines and sunny afternoons,
secretly jumbling hundreds of good reasons to
bask in dreary luxury among
pedestrian sunsets flowing with an
army of snails through unspoken affairs.