Schtick Schtock

This is anger at the comparison of bread to salt,
His is some pap with bolt-on cleverness,
Stolen from the sincere and genuinely foreign,
The arrangement of a mind palace,
Like a child’s collection lined up for praise,
From a parent returning home from work,
To the dancing darling jumping in front of the eyes
For attention and justifying.

Here is the true poet, the feedback buzzing,
From ill-treated amplifiers,
Digging deep in the feelings of the bereaved and lost,
To cut trenches in the complexities of war,
With the text and belonging of the truly alive,
Badges of membership, encrypted and protected,
The lossless compressions of experience and doubt,
Kept by outsiders from the near-dead.