three stanzas of five lines: a poem

the state of poetry:
unknown to me,
unknown to thee.
i haven't read another poem since
two thousand three.

how do they break them up now?
do they attempt to rhyme?

yes, i must learn this somehow,

but just don't have the

inclination.

old ships, no longer any use, are broken up in port.
poems are thoughts broken up, repurposed: chants, of a sort?
where every emphasis must justify itself in court?
weak metaphor and tortured rhyme, enough to make you snort.
but sometimes that's okay, because you're drunk.

ground slugs: a poem

slugs stay on the ground where the boots are
slow, brown, or goldfish gold, but slow
salt 'em, salt 'em, i don't care
crawling, walking, i don't care
slithering, slow
way down low
i don't care
about the slugs
they should stay on the ground where the boots are