Disillusioned

they said it was an accident.
bullshit. collective intelligence,
they call it.
a hive mind buzzing
with unseen agendas.

donovan, that weasel.
the british, of course.
always the fucking british.
facilitators of shadows.
they knew.
they always know.

shuttle. the word felt metallic,
cold in my mouth.
a cold steel coffin
hurtling across a dying star.
or maybe it's just this cheap bourbon.

fortune teller.
an old woman in a smoky bar,
cards spread like a battlefield.
she didn’t say “death,” no,
she said “the universal reset.”

the universal what?
i'm still trying to figure that out,
nursing these withdrawals,
while the world
continues its oblivious spin.
patton's gone.
the game continues.