Illuminati

Up the street, a white house
(not a metaphor
for the White House);

a hawk above it in the air
(not a metaphor for war, or ambition,
or foresight, or predation);

I’m having my daily
detested morning oatmeal
(not in fact a metaphor
for suffering for my art, or for
the thick pain
of the morning news — 
I’m just not a fan
of dying sooner
rather than later and
it helps wipe sugar
from my blood).

Someone will not believe me
when I say
that everything spoken of here
is exactly what it seems:

thick man with his eyes open 
choking down thick gruel, a bird
circling a nondescript house
in a small city on the verge of 
cold season, yet I guarantee

that someone
will not believe me
when I say

this world
does not exist
solely to be
a revelation;

thinking that
means that too often
we miss what’s real
and in front of our eyes
while looking for
the Illuminati
in all things.