Bad Science
I’ve been transmitting
on the frequency we talked about—
the one braided with microwaves
and half-truths
about entangled minds
and sympathetic resonance.
I figured you’d catch the pulse
once the white noise parted,
once my kettle screamed
or the dog stared too long at a corner
that wasn’t empty.
My mouth even watered
with your name
on the dough's first rise—
I dallied in the kitchen
with a low-stakes ritual,
used gravity to split particles—
you still didn't answer.
Did you notice any of it?
Do earworms still play my advice
like backmasked invocations?
I wouldn't run from a little proof
of your esoterica.
Maybe you’re the kind of quark
who skips the symposiums entirely—
no RSVP, no collision data,
just a shrug in the margins.
Or maybe your reception
requires stranger offerings—
Either way, you should know:
I'm running out of ideas.
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