Clueless

 by Brett Rutherford

I neither hip nor hop,
I neither tik nor tok.
My hand has never turned the key
to make an auto start.
The things I wish had never been
make quite a list, you see:
the gas-bomb car foremost of all,

the things I call inedible —
okra and cottage cheese,
mushroom and avocados.
Strip malls and six-lane
highways make me yearn
for a sudden apocalypse.

Ears covered, I uninvent
the electric guitar
(there, I have said it!)

Each day fresh horrors
present themselves,

some incomprehensible.

Vape stores one side of me,
tattoo parlors the other,
a shop-sign offering
to thread my eyebrows,

or make my visage
botox paralytic.

Born in another
century, I have no clue.

I still have no idea

what a Kardashian is.