To What End

Photo by Juan Salamanca on

In the rare quiet, I look outside, and in that looking, a vast gulf rumbles, drops, deepens. 

I smear my cheek against the glass, eyes heavy.

It’s the young ones: still raw, uncured, the yet-to-be-molded, malleable brains. It’s the infinite, herded into prescribed conditions, prescribed drugs.

It’s the murder of every day’s truth.

The learning of things is not the same for me, for you, in an artificial, algorithmic world. Minds dulled by entertainment stop at the eyes, mentally confine, do not contribute useful knowledge of any kind.

Cold happiness. Swimming in baby pools. In the bucket.

All the way in.


Human spite passes as wisdom across whiskey at 1 a.m. Whatever rolls around in the mouth tastes right, tastes good.

Vent, purge, vilify, justify, repeat: This “one,” not “that one,” “them” like “we” (no, I don’t know “them”) but “they” must be _____. 

When I was younger, I saw much less belief in nonsense than I do now. I saw much less blame. There weren’t as many ideologies in command, not as many hiding places, not as much rearranged hate.

And when my harsher angel whispered in my ear; when she told me to use ugly words with uglier actions, signals of delight did transmit, I will admit, my eyes lit, but only for a minute.

I didn’t listen.

I did not listen because pointlessness always makes things worse. 


Copyright © Kelly Huntson and All rights reserved.


Where are the adults?