Sour Grapes in Doggerel

A ream of cotton bond, unbound,
blown about the landfill's rotting ground,
and there, at least, by seagulls read,
at night, some sheets, a rodent's bed
for dreams in stream of consciousness.

The author (dead), O had he known
his characters through smoke have flown
beyond chain link and into hands
of his most erstwhile fellow man
who saw profound abstraction.

In morning sun, though sheets were lost,
some badly stained, some wet from frost,
our vagrant bent and gathered those
to denouement, as kismet chose,
bemused without contrition.

He knew the shelves were fully stocked
with movie stars the bookstores hawked,
and talking heads, politicos,
both left and right, the lengthy nose,
blowing social mediation.

As he hoped, indeed suspected,
the manuscript, oft rejected,
required just a tweak or two,
a liberal bent, and off it flew,
from shame to sanctimony.

He cleanly typed it on a stick,
and from the shelter, emailed it
to Pearson, Reuters, Random House,
where each one nibbled like a mouse,
but choked on publication.

Rejection stuck not in his craw;
he sent the work on to McGraw,
and there, at last, the angels sang,
as silver in his pockets rang,
fame and fortune pealing.

The Pulitzer, he bowed and took
but with few words, as his voice shook,
though talk shows, well, he shunned them all--
They clearly lacked the wherewithal
to distinguish art from garbage.


(01/28/2014)