Even as it becomes a real, uh, endeavor to make

this argument, I will strive to scribble against

unnatural fe/male enhancement as I’m slipping,

I know, into a tea kettle digital whine, but like,

when I was your age

a wee lad                               younger

Confusing. Let me start again.

When we were not so goddamn sapiens,

is what I mean to say, remember your father

found meaning in the tortured red thumbs,

the crooked nails, the, like, sheer doing

of the white-paneled shed out back?

The crux

Um.

Is there even poetry without font alterations

and empty enhancement anymore?

I can’t, uh, hm. It may one day soon be as easy

as when the only words came from my brain,

freshly sculpted from cumulus. Obsolete.

There’s enough deadliness in just that cretic,

don’t you think?

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