I am the saddest thing
That is why I write.
I live the holiest life
That is why I diet.

I have the fewest possessions
That is why I read.
I want to sell the most books
That is where it’s all going.

I have the fewest friends
That is why there is zero.
I make the least amount of phone calls
That is why it is called Apple.

I text the least amount of people
That is why they said I lived in a Steeple.
I want to chase the most poetry sales
That is why I am not in Manhattan.

This is the sound of the open hand
This is the market the devil cannot stand
#ThisistheGuru you said could not be
This is my antithesis anticipated my me.

Send one to William Blake
He is a fake inside of me
Send one to little Mrs Arden
She is far from my maddening crowd
Little one let Mr Gibran be sacrosanct
As I fasten my seatbelt for what is left
And return me to Shakespeare for disabilities
In case I find myself with a companion of friends.

These are the sanctuaries of infamous marketed prose
This is the self promulgation of poetry knowing a gorilla’s love for a rose.