Too Late

I have not been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
I have not been nominated for Best of the Net.
I am not an American Book Award.
I am not a MacArthur Grant.
I still haven’t been nominated for Best of the Net.
No Pulitzer. No Ruth Lilly. No Robert Frost medal.
No Pushcart Prize. No Pushcart Prize.
I do not teach. I have no residency.
I have not won the award you have not heard of.
When I write my poem on paper
the paper’s value plummets.
The paper is useless garbage.
I am a font of useless garbage.
My arms twist like twisting things, my legs twist
like twisting things.
My head tips back, my mouth opens
and useless garbage pours out.
It will drown the world.
They will give me a prize to stop.
A special prize for stopping the poetry.
But it is too late.