Tom DiVenti

Lame-duck politicians play at being sincere, holding court in shady bars, counting loose change from other people’s pockets. They never cared about you or the people who voted them into power. They line their own pockets with your money and call it fiscal responsibility. Likewise, they get paid, and we got played. I don’t remember when it started. I don’t recall. I was born at a very young age. Hate is the dirtiest four-letter word. I hold no hate in my heart, but it hurts like tainted love.

There’s a failed romance in the imaginary technological universe daily serving up fresh new lies. The hoax of this particular moment is of the highest magnitude; the latest news, the living end, no news is good news. Late breaking early reports. Bad news is good publicity. Living was always a private affair until the birth of the surveillance society. You can’t win. It smells of fakery and wooden nickels on dead eyes. Mind your own business and have a nice day. Big brother is watching TV again.

Do we automatically become poets at birth? A blank canvas to apply muted colors of every memory, emotion, and a lifetime of experiences. Anyone could be an artist, musician, or poet. The poets are the lowest of the breed, holding the cultural ladder to the top of art. Before the takedown of a systematic indoctrination into societal norms and the culture at large with rules and regulations that govern the nonsensical nature of existence.