𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝟏𝟏 I always thought it was me But really, you’re possessed. A friendly ghost. Doped up on Casper antidote. And I roam, still looking for the next. At the usual haunt, on the hunt, I turn up the dialectic to 11, to ascend. In a sense, it’s dielectric— the dollar’s innocence. It’s a practical defence. Verbal measures beat into melody, while the sweetest nothings play pretend until we tune them up again. In the name of letting go of holiness, hope, and letting squalor find your friends. When it’s spoken, there’s a resonance, but it’s empty, so it echoes, and I’m too empty to repent. Riddles lost in permafrost, but you never know. Watch out— you’re on the lookout for handouts with your hand out. And I’ll gladly hold your hand. —J. Katz
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