More than decoding trigonometry
in high school is how much I hate poetry
when it’s bad and still makes its way
like a laughing FUCK YOU onto the pages
of prestigious publications that promise
news and art and poetry for poetry’s sake.
Poetry for poetry’s sake is as empty
as a dry water bucket in the desert—
cold as a wet blanket on a chilly night.
Put down your pen if your words can’t heal
or break or stir. I don’t need to bleed,
but you better prick the skin.