The name of my devil is Why.
Why the Distractor, the Pusher.
Why is and sells the euphoria of distraction.
Why persists, like the sharks,
through prehistory, agnostic to evolution, just eats the life around it
and continues to move.
Why grew legs
and moved to the street corner
and sells junk food,
soft and shiny,
eats us while we eat it,
with bright sharp replenishing rows of deceit,
fooling its prey into thinking
that with a mouth that big,
eventually Why will get around
to answering its own questions.
So we feed it with attention,
masturbate at it with our big problem-solving organ,
stick it into history,
close our eyes and pretend it's the present.
But Why has no body, no payoff.
Payoff comes from What.
What is in show business.
What crumples and discards
Why's unread messages
with a crack like
"Why is in the no-show business.
Why will never learn and doesn't know how.
Why is a mop without a bucket."
But you can see Why outside
on the sidewalk,
waving cotton-candy questions,
hawking with flamboyant persistence,
loud and long.
What stands next to you and speaks softly,
because he knows
you can touch him,
and he is deaf.