This one goes out to Lauren, for the absurdity inherent within.

Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 11:

Cannot recycle
Can’t reuse
Can’t eat it, snort it, let it loose
Can’t leave it there like some left me,
Can’t pick it up
or let it be

Some said that Jackson made a world
From cousins of said chalice
Some say such things help single moms
Others call it malice

I say some things just are
I say some things remain
Use bowls for soup
Use beer for joy
Use styrofoam cups to catch rain