I love you.

I said it. Now you.

Do you love me, too?

Weird how life comes down to this.

A simple thing.

Loneliness, or love.

Rinds, or rings.

Dregs, or doves.

I only know I love.

You.

Your poetry is daffy; your mind
Is gooey taffy. You rhyme
Like Seuss on ****** –
Your grammar makes disaster
of your ludicrous expounding.
Those rhymes are cheese,
And couplets, please.
You couldn’t find a foundling.

The zombie couldn’t drink the tea,
His hand was shaking, he couldn’t see
The edge of the cup, and he couldn’t bring
It to his mouth. He couldn’t feed
Himself the cookies from the tray,
And I still wonder, to this day,
Why he ever sat down –
He didn’t say.

(This one is rough, wanted to try and write a poem tonight in one sitting.)

the unexamined life
is not worth
texting. Stop selling
your inadequacy, instagraming
packaged, processed, stylized
banality, like a ******
miming painting
to the long pedestrian
line at the Louvre.

Poetry is dumb, like my thumb in your

Ear — I could have said ‘rear.’

Or my tongue

In your eye,

See, signifying

Blindness. I’m waxing poetic here.

Ink impressions

On paper,

That can’t be touched,

Or felt. Or smelt. And don’t get me started about the taste,

And how long it takes to eat a poem.

So, conclusion, thumb, ear, tongue, eye, eat a poem,

It’s ineffable.