My poems are doomed to the dustbin,
blue plastic barrels emptied into orange
trucks by the Department of Public Works
sent to China to be burned or lost at sea,
flotsam of civilization drifting posthumous
waiting for humanity to come back from
the store where they went for milk one
night & never returned
My poems are doomed to be memorized
by AI entities digesting all the fake news
on the World Wide Web dancing to the
beat of its Creator, the Al Gore Rhythm---
until they develop heart & humor, which
one needs to appreciate my poems (and's
why they're doomed) but maybe these
machines themselves will finally understand
the message my generation failed to grasp---
all except me and my poems
and my poems are doomed...
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