I hate what this culture does to everything—
turns it meaningless; makes it product.
“What’s the matter with that?”
you ask.  Nothing, if **** is your color.

“Turns it meaningless; makes it product—
what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
You ask nothing.  If **** is your color
you’ll love what comes next.

“What the hell?  Is that supposed to mean
you count yourself among the blameless?”
You will, love.  What comes next
could decide many futures, assuming

you count yourself.  Among the blameless
will shamble the shameless, the hopeless—those who
could decide many futures.  Assuming
you won’t be one won’t save you.  In droves they

will shamble—the shame less, the hope, less.  Those who
are just looking for salvation know
you won’t be.  One won’t save you in droves.  They
count on your believing you

are just.  Looking for salvation?  Know
that very few walk this world anyone can
count on.  You’re believing you
can’t change that.  Poets won’t, I know

that.  Very few walk this world.  Anyone can
write a poem today.  Scribble down words you
can’t change--that poets won’t.  I know.
I’m writing poetry.

Write a poem today.  Scribble down words, you.
You are not alone.  In knowing that, is what
I’m writing poetry?
I want to rip it up and start again.

You are not alone in knowing.  That’s what you,
I, hate.  What this culture does to everything.
I want to rip it up and start again.
What’s the matter with that?