i may be a poet
and known to occasionally hold a paint brush
but make no mistake
i’m not the artsy fartsy type

i shave my armpits

i don’t dance naked at midnight
through a field of kale chips

i wouldn’t use patchouli oil
to grease my engine

birkenstocks look as if they would make
a fine door stop

i wanna choke every hipster i see to death
with their fair trade hemp scarves

knit me a glove with just a middle finger, sunshine

oh,
look at the bohemians
aren’t they fucking quaint?