I.
Stereos love to type,
but they can’t spell well.
Sometimes the keys get stuckkk.
If only they would write by hand
they might feel the misdirection
of their oversized loops
but they continue, without a clue.
In imaginary gardens they swoon,
senses overwhelmed by the smell
of assumptions in bloom,
compulsively crafting compartments
where people can be categorized,
sorted, data comported...
_____
[ethnicity]
_____
[gender]
_____
[age]
_____
[religion]
______
But those typists become confused
when disabused of their illusions,
realizing each person they seek to divide and conquer
is a singular, indivisible,
complex composition that can’t be separated
with even the sharpest suppositions.
There is a cost, too much truth is lost,
from predicting and depicting
based on presumed contents of a mislabeled box.
II.
The stove is hot.
But if nobody stirs,
we will never melt this pot.






By the way is it the red or purple kool-aid that goes with fried chicken? I can never remember.


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