if a poet
sits alone at
a dried up
lake in a chasm
of perpetual
cinnamon haze
scribbling
the parts of
himself he
no longer
recognizes
into the skies
that impart an
agoraphobic
anxiety in
illusions of
azure clarity
is he not at
his most futile
and thus at
the most poetic?

what gets lost
is the poem
is not the dandelion
but the dander
spreading future
fields of
objectively
horrific prose
to then be ignored
until some later
civilization takes
the time to translate
the words and ponder
if it is a parable
or poorly written
joke scrawled on a
truck stop toilet stall.

art is fucking
stupid that way
ask a fool
pelted with dirt
staring at a hole
he was assured
was a lake
it’s all in how
you spread the
absurd bullshit
still better than
astrology just
doesn’t pay as well.