All of the garbage piling up,
plugging the hole in the dike,
of my ever more flotsam dream.

I tackle one with gusto every day,
but two more unexpectedly appear,
like eye floaters in my ear,
I can neither see or hear.

I try to stamp them out,
starting calmly not to shout.

But AI on the end of the line,
does not understand my need,
puts me on hold for greed.

Wish I could just throw it all out,
give everything a fresh head start,
turn my old into new art.

But all I do is just fart.
Farting in the wind like a dog,
barking at the moon.
Crap not going away, anytime soon.

Oh, well. When I finish this poem,
I will try again tomorrow.