Oughts
Declare the moon stupid,
and the sky full of stars
a lame-ass hellfire.
Press yourself between
the pages of your book
and shelve yourself
in a high school library.
Wait and wait and
wait until some poor
sot has to write a paper
on forgotten poets of
the Oughts. Rattle-crackle
your pages, release the acid
brittle brilliance
of who you were.
Fall apart in his hands.