Now that virtue-signals are hopelessly confused,
And all the new TikToks silicone-filtered
And bots refuse to algorithmically read my verse
I will refuse to update my TwitFace banner.

I will stop exteriorizing the Luciferian hierarchy
From my pint-glass of unsalted gluten-free tears
Before petitioning my representative
For unlimited free abortion.

I will cease to sing the brilliance of blackness
And call light itself racist and homophobic.
Plainly, if you have one of those
You must be a woman. Excuse Us.

Painting: Mati Klarwein 

PROMPT #24: write a poem and describe something with a hard-boiled simile.
Use just one, or try to go for broke and stuff your poem with similes till it’s . . .
as beautiful as a chance encounter on a dissecting table of a sewing-machine and an umbrella.

  PROMPT 23: write a short and snappy poem – with a lot of rhyme and soundplay.

Your trite observations are word-crafted dullness
A poem half-empty mistaken for fullness . . .
You really think people pay money to read this?

The MFA chapbook as strong soporific;
For use as a sedative: truly terrific—
Do poetry-lovers pay money to read this?

Your online credentials are surely impressive . . .
Your verses, however, are drab and regressive.
Do muses think people pay money to read this?

This tepid admixture of phrases concocted;
A tottering temple of yawn you’ve constructed,
(Though readers might even pay money to read this.)

PROMPT #22: write a poem that uses repetition.
You can repeat a sound, a word, a phrase, or an image, or any combination of things.

Still awed by your prowess
in the three-ring circus of education;
You will ever be
lion-tamer, trapeze artist and juggler:
students/parents/administration
are your spinning plates
and you do it amazingly well.

Teaching middle schoolers
was something I thought I could do
until that eighth year
when waves of nausea assaulted me
the closer I got to the school parking lot
every morning after intolerable nights:
waking up in cold sweats at 2 a.m,
breaking down over nothing,
trying and failing to love my enemies . . .

It felt like standing on that bridge;
The Scream by Munch—
ongoing, endlessly repeating
in slow motion, relentless.

How do you not become disgusted
depressed, cynical and dismissive
of the unfunny clown show
as the suited specters approach?

PROMPT #21:

write a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time. Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question.