Occam's Butter Knife

As I rummage through the cabbage patch of general affairs, I’m made aware of certain signs of cultural decline. I see it written in the talon marks of chem-trails overhead, Confirming all my pet conspiracy theories. It’s rooted in the topsoil of a flat earth conviction. It’s every suburban legend’s low hanging fruit. It’s the latest mass shooting as a Tik-Tok challenge Teasing gut brain muscle memories with algorithms of outrage. It’s all flash, but no drive, just broad-spectrum rhetoric Inducing Karenoia and cultivating satanic panic, All in the name of the Good Lord and Savior. It’s the dog whistle only heard by those whose ears Cannot think outside the Fox, where waxy yellow build-up Is impacted, unyielding to the voice of Reason. It’s, “OK groomer,” “Don’t say gay,” and "Let's go Brandon." It’s the Battle Hymn of the Replacement. It’s the influencers trending on social media. It’s the meme that captures the lapsing of just a still moment, Like a fly frozen in the amber of time everlasting. It’s the universal selfie unapologetically posted on the Cloud. You may be cool, but you’ll never be Korean cool. And yet you try ever so hard to be. When I slice with Occam’s butter knife The loaf becomes a senseless pile of crumbs. And so it goes.