This is not about a wonderful new psychic
Jason Wilkinson

This is not about a wonderful new psychic
that your best friend’s cousin visited recently.

Or the life changing results that ensued from the inner wonders broached.

It’s not about a police force that has taken to shooting defenseless men
or the belief that shooting certain defenseless men is somehow reasonable.

This is not about urging consumers to worry their heads over gas economy
while affluent, wooden suits use barrels of petrol to ignite their barbeques.

It’s not a revolutionary gadget designed to monitor cholesterol, prepare rice in minutes,
or make you sound like Gilbert Gottfried.

This is in no way an attempt to decry the character of Gilbert Gottfried
nor his exceptional voice.

It’s not that special place in your mind
that you go when no one is around.

Not a methodic strain of eloquent drivel
issued by a writer whose pretensions often get the better of him.

Nor is it a best seller drowning in fourth grade English.

This is not about The Priory of Sion,
 The Da Vinci Code,
 The fact that Jesus never actually had any children,

Or why a cult symbol should appear on American money.

It’s not about the spare change that minimum wage earners
are guilted into throwing at the coffers of big business
under the pretence of charity.

how big business never loses a penny in the transaction.

It’s not about trying to convince your grandmother
that her bingo habit has slowly destroyed the family.

This is not about how many rich people have to die of a fucked-up new disease
before anybody decides to invest interest in researching a cure
for said fucked-up new disease.

How only rich people can afford it.

No, this is not about Richard Bey
or the fact that Springer ought to send him half of his check every year.

At no juncture shall this piece delve into the horrors of a bygone era.

It’s not about the mysterious death of a gold-digger
who, at times bore a striking resemblance to a famous actor
that was murdered for screwing a president,
who, in turn, was murdered by the government he represented.

This is not a street anthem, played at ten decibels or greater
making ostensible drug and gang references
that you would prefer your children to abstain from downloading.

Surely, this is not about all the acid that you dropped at Woodstock
or that sitting around naked and holding hands in a circle
never stopped anybody from picking up a gun.

That spitting on a soldier is revolting.

It’s not about internet fraud
or video games where police officers are the primary target of a player’s angst.

This is not about the Sphinx
or why the Smithsonian continues to lie about its age
and who actually built it.

This is not confused, omnificent, or hygienic.

It’s not about a fortune teller who recently came under scrutiny
for practicing witchcraft without a license.

Hallelujah, this is not about the devil!

This is not about global warming, imminent nuclear aggression, the other things one talked prosaically about in the 1980’s, or why Sacco and Vanzetti were framed.

It’s not a vain attempt to reconstruct history.
Nor is it a strong argument against correcting it.

This is not the last thing that you ought to read before taking a nap.

This is not about to end.

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