I’m no philosopher, but some days I think
we were put on this pale blue dot to have long ass debates
over ways to make coffee & levels of sugar
in tea &, most importantly, the correct placement of semi-colons
in the soul. Ah nitpicking, quibbles,
& typo-inspired tiffs. Some days my name, too, is Irk
Incarnate. My very hair gets into it, lectures the shampoo bottles
on their slippery grammar, even slipperier
mechanics. How yummy, each opportunity to nibble at the abyss
of the minor; the sheer bottomlessness of
the bothersome. How, why
aren’t we crushed by the massive pleasure of our myriad
pettinesses—I’m fine
with remaining baffled by that. Though I’m sure by now some intrepid
or reckless philosopher has found their passion.
2025