Friday, April 8, 2011


a poet checks his material
dog ears the best stuff
wears the clothes that define him
carries the briefcase with his books
he won't need them all

he brings his well-worn proof copy
the one he reads from
puts his name on the list
tries to get a spot right before intermission
this way your words stick with the audience
they come up to buy a few

they tell you what your words mean
they are usually wrong
you smile and say
"your right, by god"!
you sign...and sign
stick the crumpled bills in your pocket
go home

get out of those damn jeans
cowboy boots
hippie jewelry
all the crap that turns people on
and wish you had an agent
'cause the big bucks ain't there

no publisher wants you
no publicist
no nationwide bookstore
no big newspaper articles
nothing but the grind
like everthing else

but you love your art
you did the work
it will always exist
on someone's bookshelf
or at some garage sale
and that is enough

1 comment:

  1. or even right here, right now. in 50 years, rock. in 1000 years, pebble. in 5000 years, sand. but in the vast universe, there is no work like this, l'unique. xoxoxoxooxox