Let's workshop this poem about our friends of the 'evil eye,' color-personalized auras, telekinesis, bleeding statues, dowsing, pyramidology, spontaneous human combustion, house hauntings
Remote Viewing
It is not labeled “thirteen”
(the hotel, after all, must
kowtow to superstition),
and yet we find ourselves—
in a pathetic case of stacking
idiocy upon idiocy—
sincerely relieved to rest
our heads on what amounts to
the actual thirteenth floor?
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)