"This is the Last Poem I Will Ever Write"

Because my voice can’t handle it,
It just doesn’t have the vocabulary.

I dream of black oaks mingling with pines
And a forest floor covered in women.
I lust after Whitman’s breadth,
And vision Elise’s great breast
Sagging toward a yearning platonic earth
And leave with dry hands.

I am not a poet, but poems are only this:

The back of a pearl earring

Generation

I am no longer bronzed in youthful craze.
I am a faux-intellectual WASP.
I am a consumer.
I speak slow and drink heavily.
I have broken the shell of my dreams and turned them into a job.

I am part of us.
We: raised by MTV and URLs.
We: unwired and tethered to technology,
Bitten apples and blue.
Disciples of Rand! Pugilist for Pollock!

I am a fax machine.
I am an amplifier.
I am a bright shining red.

I am a silent vowel.