“The Matrix” a Poem by Christine Bode

Lonely Is The Man Without Love
Painting by Karl Kenda; owned and photographed by Larry Samson

The Matrix

by Christine Bode

Everett,
in the movie Paterson says, 
after pulling a fake gun on everyone in the bar, 
“Without love, what reason is there for anything?”
I don’t know, Everett… nothing, 
not a fucking thing that matters anyway.
Without love, every day is the same damn pandemic day.
Wake up, walk the dog, 
make coffee, 
drink coffee, read a book,
do housework, 
work at the computer, walk the dog, eat lunch, 
work at the computer some more…
Make dinner, eat it, 
walk the dog, 
maybe phone a friend, 
watch Netflix, 
go to bed.
Get up the next day and 
do it all over again…
in pain.
For what?
How many useless facts can I hold in my head? 
I forget more than I learn, 
every day, 
so little of it matters.
Without love, 
there’s no reason for anything.
Without love, 
every day’s a pandemic day.
Without love…
we don’t really exist.
It’s all just the matrix.

Thank you, Jim Jarmusch, for the inspiration.

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