a freestyle sonnet about being a yard art freak

Manmade world is riddled with manufactured sleights 
of hand (and mind) designed to confound and entrap. 
I'm inclined to not give a fuck - the sounds and sights 
of half-abandoned happenstance entrance. The scrap 

and detritus of industrial purpose (less) 
decorates my simple existence; one man's trash 
becomes environmental blessings once the mess 
is rearranged to be physical balderdash - 

nonsensical contraptions spinning and clanging 
in the winds of change. Rebar clankyjangers bloom 
throughout my yard, greater Appalachian twanging 
of unseen Blue Ridge back road far from highway's zoom 

between far more important places to extol; 
meanwhile, this shiftless prole maintains his aimless stroll.