“Don’t believe everything you read in the Lügenpresse; you know what kind of people write for them. Echo, echo, echo. The kind that are in cahoots with the Russians.”
I rubbed my eyes,
rubbed them again,
and concluded I am nowhere near stoned enough for this world.
The guy saying this is wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt,
Doc Martens, and an Antifa button – unironically.
The thing that has me most confused
and seriously wondering if I’ve slipped
into some mad parallel world
– this guy’s supposed to be leading a Dionysian ritual.
Wearing that.
Fucking pagan conferences,
I somehow manage not to say aloud,
fighting down the urge to smash my head into the nearest wall
repeatedly until sweet oblivion overtakes me.
I don’t show it, either
– my demeanor is polite, if aloof.
If Dionysos wants me here, I’ll play nice.
Soon as I’m out of here though,
I am so making a bitchy but vague post
so all my Facebook pals can circle like buzzards
and pick him apart behind his back. Fuck that dude.
