Bum Knee Poetry

You and I have been making poetry

Like this for quite some time now, immortal,
The melding of cultural elements,
Ideally one high and one low, smugly
Clever, utterly meaningless result,

A kind of hapless, slapdash recipe,
An algorithm. Like all of its kind
It works by turning a crank. Anyone
Can do it. It's Andy Warhol's pop art
Factory. Magnetic words for your fridge.

No it isn't. It's a trick, a trick knee.
You hop along, reading, ignoring it,
And then it seizes, immobilizes
You with pain, busted crank, cranky, thankless.
You have nothing to say. You hate the pain.