Afloat in the doldrums

Ho hum,
I wrote a poem
In the note pages
In the back of my pocket calendar
Which is in my bag
In the other room.

And it is shit.
Dark,
But light,
To the point
And right
But trite
As I might,
Gone unnoticed and in gray absence of grace
Of my poetic heroes in space:
Keats yawning,
Yeats bawling,
Kerouac bemused,
Dylan confused,
Dull, and shit-smeared,
Reflecting the dimness of a vapid mind,
Afloat in the doldrums.
On cruel sea of creativity,
Afloat on the sublime
But corrosive brine,
In the absence of wind or current
And an ear and bearings gone for poetry,
Deaf and dumb to the digital overdose
The literary world has become.
Unfurled in vain like sails made of cheesecloth,
My words gather no pull.

Yet in my gravid hull
I hold a payload full
Of words
Like limes
I will use
To stave off scurry
When I'm truly dry
Ready to die
From a complete loss of muse.