This poem is to be published
a lifetime after my timely death,
when jaundiced papyrus curl the
corners of cigarette-burnt edges;
surrounding scratches cut and
pasted together without wasting
whited-out words on artificially-
intelligent electronic screens
exhaling synthetically heated breezes,
before I suffocate under gray hairs
from unburied balding dust bunnies.
Only dead poets are famous,
but obsolete art can’t save us.
