Three Conspiratorial Poems, by J.B. Stevens

Conspiracy Theories are Valuable Because They Tell Me Who is an Idiot

I know many of you,
Believe in conspiracy theories.
The Rothschilds, and Bohemian Grove, and 9/11, and political sex cults.
But—the world is far more boring.
We are all assholes,
We are all scum,
We are all trash.
We are all stupid.
Just trying to make money,
And make love,
Before we die.
There is no mystery,
No grand design,
It is pain and confusion, and sorry and hurt,
And Death.
There is no hidden higher secret thing,
No hope for any of it.
There is no underlying mystery that makes it all exciting and new.
There is no control.
It is all horrible, and it is all out in the open, and it is all there to see in shitty high definition.
And, if you believe in those things, then I understand that you use it as a coping mechanism.
But, if you believe the Earth is flat, you are true idiot.
Conspiracy theories are distractions from the pain of existence.
Except for Bigfoot.
Because Bigfoot is real.

Conspiracy Theories are True—Am I an Idiot?

Bigfoot is real,
This much I know.
And Apple is spying on me (as I write this)
And the Skull and Bones run the entire world.
And maybe I’m the idiot.
And Bigfoot is real.
Because I believe some things,
That are unbelievable.
Or—perhaps it is about finding control,
In chaos,
Or it is how to cope,
With things that are insurmountable.
Or maybe I’m the idiot.
And Bigfoot is real.

Please Disregard those previous two Poems—Smart People Can Believe Conspiracies, and I am not an Idiot

Dear Reader,
I pray that this poem finds you well.
I ask that you disregard my previous two works (Conspiracy Theories are Valuable Because They Tell Me Who is an Idiot & Conspiracy Theories are True—Am I an Idiot?)
I fear I’ve alienated you and I’ve disrespected myself,
With my sharp stance on the stupidity of conspiracy theories,
Many of which I believe in.
And calling to the forefront the excruciating ache of being alive.
I am not an idiot,
Or perhaps I am.
You believe what you must,
Just—don’t hurt anyone—do no harm,
And make it better.
Whatever it is.
I have no idea what I am doing,
And the world is pain,
But—I want to reject the agony.
I want to smile.
I hope that you smile.
(And Bigfoot is real)
Dear Reader.

J.B. Stevens was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for poetry and was a finalist for the Killer Nashville Claymore award. His poetry chapbook All the Violent Memories and short story collection A Therapeutic Death are forthcoming from Close to The Bone publishing.

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