bitter, bitt-ah

poet, poet, poet:
you think you know it all.
get out of my bed!
stop wandering in silence;
dry as a bone but rich as cake,
rich as a movie star
in an undented freshly-painted
pearlized buggy,
a tortured anachronism
of a man, deep in suffering -
life is an illusion! and no man
can be as free as I, I, I!

poet, poet, poet, poet:
you think you know it all.
clock in, clock out
on the beach
with sand burning that space between
obscurity and self-professed mogul.

a tree once bloomed and
felt in that empty space.
you fill its organs with
your own brand of
justification.