The desolation of artistic expression -
virtue signaling, mood pieces -
cheapens the message.
Daily I am deceived by what I read.
I thought not that I would struggle
finding comfort and truth in the house of poetry;
a house we all have had a hand in building.
Indeed, poetry is, at its foundation,
patient and playful, and honest
and yet, I find nothing more than disingenuity
creeping beneath the eaves,
pseudo-poets with no better avocations,
no real love for the craft.
It is a shame, in fact,
that one's concentration could be
so fixed upon the ego
that the heart lacks any good judgement.
Though, I suppose, every generation
has its fools, its phoneys.
Yes and even now, as I toil in my home,
persistent and earnest,
I can hear a window break,
see shingles strewn about the lawn.

Your left knee is arthritic,
Your spine is warping too
Your reactions aren’t so quick
And you’re often in the loo,
But we cannot help you
Your time is simply due.
It’s normal for your age.

Your skin’s become quite dry
As well as your nether parts
Your outfit isn’t fly
And you’re far more prone to farts
But it’s been written in the cards
It’s been sung by many bards
It’s normal for your age.

You tell me it’s an illness
And you want it treated fast
I’m afraid it’s your willfulness
You weren’t designed to last
The diagnosis is that your youth is in the past
We won’t treat your condition; the die’s already cast.
It’s normal for your age.

I always smack her *** when she is cooking -
her eyes tell me she likes it.
She says to everyone that she's a feminist.
Well, so am I, honey.

Just as well that it ended, frankly.
Now you'll write poems about how
the world looks dark outside your window,
how black ink runs through blue veins
and you bleed it on every blank page.
I guess you're brave
to be so open.
I guess you're brave
to jump head-first into that abyss,
that hole in your heart.
It may be tough to hear, but
maybe your lover left because
they were tired of
"your eyes gleam like jewels in moonlight,"
how you "only long to hold them,"
how they "saved you from yourself."
Sometimes we just need to be ******
hard, primal, endlessly
when we get bored with making love.
Some things have been said too many times
to mean anything to us now.

She glides through city blocks at noon
hair coming undone as she goes
I'm drunk from drinking her perfume
I wonder if she even knows

One thousand lovers gather in
beside her, pulling at her sleeve
but vanish when the tears begin
Not me, though, I will never leave