You really don’t want to read this
O Stranger whom I imagine in the future far or near
These poems I call them poems
Are bad poems
For they name states of feeling instead of expressing them
For example I state here that I am depressed and bored
How dare I indulge in such a state
And how dare I make such a statement
Not so debilitated as to lack the power
To hack away at my noisy desktop

I am surrounded by all that which makes life good
Rich food comfortable amenities a useful and rewarding career
Access to the ennoblement of literature and the arts
Throngs of family and friends who assemble
Like the queue that wraps around the block
In the hope of early admission to the latest blockbuster
I was a cheerful child as I am cheerful in adulthood
But racked with anxiety that interferes
With appreciation of the good and the pleasurable
But I don’t tell my loved ones of my capital sins
Embarrassed to equate ennui and suffering
To those who truly suffer
I confide only in you Anonymous One

This morning I cast bread upon the lawn
Hardened cornbread and a shattered flour tortilla
For the delectation of the fauna
Despite my recently acquired knowledge
Of the culpability of that act
Culpable in at least two ways
For don’t prepare food only to throw it away
And don’t add unnatural components
To the diet of the wildlife

And how can I be such a petty bourgeois
As to own a lawn
Or worse to pay a mortgage on the house and grounds
Nothing is more reprehensible
Than suburbia and it’s discontents
Well that’s not true
So add self-aggrandizement to the list
Why make such a list and why oh why publish it
You don’t want to read this dear Stranger
Or perhaps you already have