sell a car on tv.

I am greater than my acumen to this life

than that of you, and

all your smudging opuses.

You write about death,

as if you’ve gone for a trial session,

came back with the rotting flies dead,

and a swat stick in your right hand;

That smugness, the one resultant of debunking

a myth, is perennial with proclamations - 

“It’s true; the gods are medieval.” –

or something along the lines of self-

indulgence. Your philosophies have less

to do with insight, than they do

to monolith reputation. And while your sotto voce

has its own agendas (a pretension of indifference, for one),

I burn a fissure in your back,

and I know when you lie, or when

the mystics are just trickery, or when

your words are only translations of the

languages that became lost on tongues

and diluted in the shadows.

I’m greater than your acumen to a life

because it plays no role in

anyone else’s realm, aside from your own.