Let's Get Nasty

Take a topic, spin it around a tree

Hope for the scent of pine or loose needs to merge into

This catastrophe

Of a poet who hates poetry

And a writer who's tired of writing

Of stuffed noses and stuffies decorating the bed

That keep rolling off every time you sneeze

Poetry is like a sneeze

Something comes out, sometimes clear, other times infectious

But who's to say which is better when the comments are filled

Stuffed fill with false encouragement and Viagra ads

Maybe one day we'll really grow

Get real hard into our field

Be seen from a mile at least

So everyone can say "that's the poet!"

But for now we word vomit on this semi-vocal merry-go-round

Where all that goes 'round are words on an endless algorithm

Where we lose our minds and hope for the scent of books to fill our hairy nostrils

With success, a catastrophe, whichever comes first

Both contribute to sellable poetry

And are we all just sell-outs in some way or another?