Persuasive as a Pentecostal preacher,
the dark-haired man with a tranquilizing
voice and hypnotic green eyes speaks first.
They follow me in unmarked police cars.
Signal strangers on the street to mess
with me and manipulate my mind.
There’s a knock on the car window.
Honey, Henry just hit a home run.
His face distorts and disappears,
replaced by a frizzy redhead.
The black ops broke into my house
and implanted a microchip in my skin
like my vet did with my Dalmatian.
They harass me with lasers and loud
noise. A voice blares: Manager on
Aisle 10. Sorry, she says, That’s me.
The screen goes dark and a gray
and wrinkled woman whispers:
They spy on me with motion
lights and watch me as I sleep.
They sneak in and sprinkle
cyanide in my salt shakers.
A silhouette saunters across the screen.
Mother, have you taken your meds?
A teenager in a nose ring and tattoos
articulates like an anchor on ABC.
The CIA decapitated my entire family
including my grandma. I escaped
from their mind control camp today.
One or all of you could be one of them.
A girly girl grabs the mike: Get off
my laptop or I’ll tell Mom and Dad.
The cameras continue to film
fresh faced followers feeding
on the frenzy of the internet
conspiracy cult, convincing
them to ditch drugs and doctors
to listen to voices on the web
repeating the same rhetoric
as the voices in their head.
– Sharon Waller Knutson