A Brief History of Poetry

It makes me think of garbage. So
Poetry isn’t expendable, nor is
Refuse: both are outcome;
Not useless, remnant of use – as
There’s no tuna chunk without a can.

*

Jammed everything inside me
Jagged equipment among it
And didn’t much care.
So now prongs do protrude
Like out of a pierced garbage bag.

Lined up outside wi’ my mates
We mesh: gearwheels of
Torn olid bags
A clockwork of waste.
Will the trashmen appreciate?

With no commodities poking out
Spoilage neatly arrayed
Agelong-footed wit
Could be disposed of
Far, far more comfortably, friends.

October 21, 2009, Ceteri egoque, 12