I read today about the "Big" guys in poetry
a sordid tale of in-fighting, nepotism, and the rigging
of the contests, a sad comment on the world of the
august and ivory halls of legitimacy,
a shadow of darkness, crinkling the edges like
dirty money, has been cast over the paragons of
verse and foiled the pristine veneer of the
mystical sage,
for a moment I thought I would drink to their
nakedness and mourn the lose of their facades,
but then I smiled as I realized I was right where
I had started in the quest to write and be heard,
on the outside looking in, but the view from the
window revealed nothing--just
smoke and mirrors.
J. Masuda © 2005