An exercise in worthlessness /A pound of teabags,
lightly used. In general:
last year's projections;
futures on goat milk;
certificates of authenticity
for snoring patterns,
chess moves, nasal hair styles;
Or, back to specifics: sack
of apple cores; a Caribbean
quarter (maybe not: its
flip side's got a ship...);
'Cease and Desist' from
made-up lawyers. Pitted
almonds, sautéed ice-cream,
sanded dates. The breath
of langoustines still moving
on the counter. Kidneys
(you can get one Bitcoin
for the price of five!).
List poems over thirty lines.
Mimes in the dark.
Mark Zuckerberg (except,
for his shareholders).
Ground microchips.
Some strange dude's hateful
comments. What you think
you could have said that time
instead of what you said.
Gourmet dog chow.
Your whole damn life —
unless you go to bed.
(Right. Now.)
@verse by
MR
(This, evidently, is a poem from those late hours of night that border a bit too closely on "early" — but I'm sparing you the notification by scheduling it for morning. 💤)
