ode to a poet who thinks he’s great

i hooched your nearly-thought
in vain -- where icy summer
slumbers train the winter sun
to fuck words with raging animal grunts --
but you did not see
the ripe cerulean seaglass of cliche
growing on the sandy fingers of beach

and so my lunch-parched lips lurched
toward the tender truth of your vanity
the touching malaise of another wasted
effort by a man who believes the messages
in the bottles he tossed to sea.

oh, you are an artist, of this there is no doubt,
but a lazy one.