Endlessly writing ghazals, to what effect? Poems are more like riddles
than gestures directed at one’s idiotic name. Writing poems to lovers became
so boring. Writing poems about climate change— boring also.
The biomass plant is no place to call home but neither is this.
            I miss my dog. Listen to me, little one. If a poem doesn’t have a takeaway line,
            it isn’t a poem. Take away my name. Say, when can I commit online suicide?
            Hey there! Don’t follow me around the grocery store just to walk away!
            Stalker, come back. I didn’t mean bore you.
                        I need a little bit of Hitler in my life (but not too much).
                        To twist some romance like a screw into the luscious soil
                        into the rag. Oh baby. That’s my Garden of Eden
                        you’re shoveling glass into.
                        Endlessly writing Ghazals to what effect?