By Michael Lee Johnson.
Like a full service gas station,
or postal service workers,
displaced, racing to Staples retail
for employment against the rules of labor,
poets are out of business nowadays, you know.
Who carries change in their pockets?
Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?
iPhones, Smartphones, life is cam ready to shoot, destroy.
No one reads poets anymore.
No one thumbs through yellow pages anymore.
Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore, just naked shots online?
Streetwalkers, cosmetic, bleach blonde whores,
plastic altered faces in neon night,
do not bother to pick pennies or quarters off the streets, anymore.
The days of nickel bag of candy, pennies lying on the counter top-
for Tar Babies, String licorice, Wax Lips,
Pixie Sticks, Good and Plenty, no more.
Everyone is a stop end player in time.
Monster technology destroys culture fragments, efforts in mindlessness.
Old age is a passive slut, conversations distilled, serrated
measurements by number of slim toothpicks,
matchbooks of many colors vanished.
Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.
Life is a defunct full service gas station.
Poets are out of business.