Breakfast isn’t breakfast
without the Morning News.
The planetary status unfolds
in twelve-minute segments.

It ought to be true that
no news confuses us, that
all news is lucid; but the
eggs aren’t the only things
scrambled every morning.

These days, even after coffee,
all the messages seem mixed;
all the info so deeply encoded
that English isn’t English anymore.

Gibberish almost makes sense,
and outright nonsense
has become the accepted norm.

RDP Monday


One thought on “Scrambled

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