waste–

poetwutter fear:
am i broken into records?
so many timestamped shattered shells
who once could have been called 
currency.

it seems i believe so.
lower case me,
reduce me by a gross,
back to blank,
the best number zero
any lower casement could be.

it's detritus anxiety.
sewer worry.
are my creations
doomed to compost fjords?
yes, obviously.
but so soon? in my face? before i might
catch a leg, ah, see---by the tail?

i like to resolve my tension
before the end of a string of verse
but this time,
i'm a hangover chad
a dusted down lad
clad in broken letters
i wove for someone else.