To be a midlist author, surrounded by literary bad boys,
Intending nothing but skipping prominent alleys
In favor of fiduciary parking lots, magicing up
Works whose chief merits reign illusionary, phantasmal,
While making profiteers’ eyes roll ’round their sockets.
So many dun-colored basketballs go bouncing among odorous
Fame hounds until hoops get filled, goals ratcheted.
These electronic days, no one pays stylish secretaries to appear
All carefully arranged hair, tailored, fashionable outfits
Bearing brimming letter files plus news from project engineers.
Rather, we creative sorts resort to serving known financial demons
By means of cold calls, unsolicited submission, even fan fiction,
Albeit also slowly learning which small presses bloom and pop like
Rainy day lupines, cactus flowers, beloperones.
Contemporary writing’s no storage bin for misplaced visions,
Star-gazed hoodlums, polite dreamers. Unlike old eras, when word
Play was good commerce, modern buying, selling, even trading
Prose, mischief, poetics makes stale bread. Texts seem mere more choils,
Hapless salutations, fitted out to suit e-zines, blogs, quick copy.
Spun for someone else’s pet display of bother, angst, ill-discerned viscera,
Becoming budgie liner unless recognized, by awards or money.
Hitherto, jeremiads fade to black, their magnetic hoards dust before
Programmers realize transference possibilities for rhetorical basalt.
Great portions of digital salutations get reduced to elluvium, hurrriedly.
So, fishing pole, quill pen, other anachronisms packed I prefer
My name among scree, my pages tucked between ads, not URLs,
My professional gaeses fulfilled by dint of ink, paper, rock.
I’ll color the wind, fleetingly, willingly, for handfuls of ready readers.