This Comforts Me.

We all have a shelf life. Expiration date.
Mediocre poets. Shitty poets.
The brilliant poets live on in suicide notes.
I'm not encouraging you to kill yourself.
Mediocre poets and shitty poets don't
go that way.
They live the longest.
Check out your Twitter feed for all the proof
you'll ever need and a whole lot extra.
Today mediocre New Country stars
are expressing their love
for Merle Haggard.
Oh shut the fuck up.
Go home.
Listen to "Misery and Gin"
and slit your goddamn wrists.
Just joking.
Just venting.
Brilliant bloggers don't joke or vent.
Do they get shit done?
Probably not.
But the cookies are in the oven.
I'm just wondering, cockroach cowgirl.
If the mountain didn't move
for Patsy Cline
what the hell
do you think
will move
for you?
Think about it long and hard.
Snort some meth.
Drink some top shelf wine
with your husband's hard-earned dollars.
Whatever floats
your sad
little boat
until the next
open mic.
Someday you will rot
like the chapbooks
you couldn't give away.
You're rotting now.
I don't need proof.
If the suspense doesn't kill me
the generic allergy pills
just might.
This is
not a poem.
It's a grocery list.
Be sure to drink
your Ovaltine.