You must go back in time: would you prefer
to live the life of a slave owner, or the life
of a slave? Or to be the wife and/or ex-wife
of one or two cohabitating monsieurs
in Brooklyn, February dusk’s longuer
filtering through the glass: an ontology rife
with bad questions as a mad toddler with a knife:
you must answer; you cannot demur:
chair turned backwards: —look, I’m gonna rap
at y’all: you would choose, if pressed, to own
derision in your life and in your Twitter mentions
if paid for your inflammatory crap,
cool to date your ex, too bored to bone
though, and only in it for attention.

I have determined that generation Z
doesn’t believe in criticism of any kind;
they haven’t the discipline or habit of mind;
their brains are poisoned by too much irony.
None of the foregoing applies, of course, to me.
I only read text that’s found between the lines
and ferment images as grands crus wines
derive from simple grapes. They flee from me,
these stupid kids, these motherfucking geeks;
they won’t pull up their pants; they won’t improve;
they do not say their daily affirmations;
O Muse! in whose once mighty song one seeks
interpretations enough to fill a Louvre
with the prized wall texts of all the modern nations!