In these times of exceeding sexual criminality and hidden, abhorrent abuse, the poet yearns, nay PLEADS for a hero to step forth and administer not justice. Nay, no justice by today’s standards. The people demand a hero of vengeance! Detective Elliot Stabler!!!

This one is depressing. My prescriptions got messed up and I ran out of my antidepressant. That pill was suppressing this poem, and I’m going to go get my refill right now. I don’t like writing these. They’re not good, anyway.

I don’t know why. I didn’t even mean to write this. Nor do I find this “good.” This is more like the sketch of a future poem. Honestly, I can’t wait to take down this page of poetry.

This image is of white supremacist vandalism on the front of an ethnic cultural center in that historic, well-known center of southern racism in the United States: St. Paul, Minnesota. In 2021. Minnesota is in the Deep South, right?

This shit is everywhere. It has been. It will be. Unless…

This is about how we all poop, in a way. Hmm…

This started as something completely different, and then I think I ended up challenging myself to rhyme something with “cycle”. Then, to do that, I had to change the topic and everything else about the poem, and then I had to make up several words, and then I claimed to myself that stultify rhymes with lullaby, and then…