I wish I was a poet. I like some poetry, and I dislike other poetry. I am poetry indifferent unless there is some emotional resonance that hits me.

Today, I would write an ode that would be like this:

Dear Goats who disdain me,

You eat the garbage and it is a combined lust of feeding and need.

Your horns frighten me as you stare at me with a gaze that means that I am obviously doing wrong. I am nothing to you.

You have a beard, which intrigues me. There is a reason for your fury. You are a goat.

The sky is dark with your fury, and yet I still look at the  the blue abyss to find reason and comfort. When you speak to me, I go back to talking on my cell phone. It is only because you are a goat. I mean no harm, this is the new world order.

I don’t understand your Baaah. Why do they think that you represent  darkness when you are just a goat? I seek comfort from my goat overlords.

Life, it is another field that is green and then dark depending on the season and your wrath, yet the ghosts of your ancestors, scream with anger and indifference.

I do not worry. Your goat coat is as shiny as tinfoil and sing.

Goats disdain you, as they do me.

And this is the reason I will never be a poet.