When they finally pick through the bones of all dead poets

mine will belong to the species of the unpublished poets

and within that species my kin will be defined by

our unwillingness to try to be heard or felt or seen

Our eyesight is fine for reading things up close and within

but we cannot see the bigger picture for there is none

born we are without souls and thus moralless

we eat cocaine and steal from our mothers

We need fingers and toes to count sexual partners

and pray that we escape jail and churches

the other defining feature is we have no audience

there is no applause in which we wait

Solitude and silence is it’s own reward

and thought is the only achievement

so when they pick through my bones

do not make any a fetish

For the only bone to pick is your own