next year
i am supposed to go
to virginia
for a convention
supposed to
walk around among
the writers
while pretending
that i belong
it is such a scheme
scribbling stories
the same as everyone else
yet expecting
lightning to strike
and the right person
to comb through the
overburdened shelves
find your book
spread the word
and after all these
impossibilities
maybe you’ll catch
fifteen minutes of success
before the next book
becomes the obsession
all of us with
ink stained hands
hunched backs and
failing vision from
staring at screens
vomiting words out
chasing the same
maggot infested carrot
in a circle jerk
of begging for attention
and i am supposed to
walk around as if
i have a chance at
hitting this lotto
when i can’t manage
to be heard even when
i try my damnedest

if failing were a
marketable skill then
i would be the most
successful entrepreneur
on the fucking planet
just a five cent poet
with a ten cent vocabulary
and a heart so utterly
goddamned worthless
despite my best attempts
it remains overcharged
with crackling anxieties
too stupid to just
simply accept defeat

another fucking dimwit
begging for change
when everyone else is
perfectly content to
remain exactly the same