as if in irons, is the opinionated poet
@ sea with his compass demagnetized and sexton horizontal.
Society sated with celebrity yearns for the anonymity of its amateur years, when TV and radio were free, even if stations had to sign off a couple hours every night.
A time when the idea that poet is an occupation and not a free-floating vocation, a job that may deserve, or need, university style professionalization along with industrial strength private patronage from whichever sectors overflow with cash and appetites for immortality instead the ignominy they have coming to themselves, despite the
Fiction of their corporate brand names, we see right through the shallowness of your need; you remember us from the playground, you’re the one who’s mother came to the rescue, just before we were going to teach you the lesson that would have made you think twice before you take the money and look the other way.
Society want to petition for reinstatement of amateur status, it wants to re-purpose docents and curators into disc jockeys for return to the day when every town has a radio station and any high school kid, with an awesome record collection, can get a show on the air every third sunday at seven a.m. and impress any friends who remember to tune in at that hour.