Alan L. Winters
I feel that fame is not a privilege.
Indeed it is a right.
For proof just ask the artist.
Andy Warhol would stand behind his magic easel
And turn out cans of soup
Far faster than Campbell’s can.
For this the man had fame
And the avid application of chromatic Marilyn Monroes.
Sir Edmund Hillary achieved his fame
By climbing a mountain because it was there.
The remains of his fingers
Lay somewhere in the snow.
The good Mr. Bell found his 15 minutes
And provided us with a service
And huge bills for sex hotlines
And astrological reports
And long lost friends
(A little less on nights and weekends).
The brothers Wright found their fame
By flying like a duck
And crashing like a duck shot down
And airport delays and cheap fares
But only on weekdays from 9 to 5
And other restrictions apply.
And now I present myself.
I sit behind my desk and “poeticize”.
My lines are as genius as Yeats,
As warped as Ferlingetti,
And far more understandable than Chaucer.
I don’t seek perfection. I’m already there.
I know, therefore I am.
Do I not then deserve my fame?
I put my trousers on the way that Andy does.
As Hillary climbs mountains, do I not climb stairs?
Like Mr. Bell, do I not run up huge phone bills?
And like the brothers Wright
Does not my poetry crash from time to time?
Yes, I too deserve my 15 minutes.
For this, fame is owed to me.
Somewhere a random monkey
Sits at a random keyboard and types
“Double, double, toil and trouble.”
I wonder where he’ll go from there.
©Copyright September 13, 1996 by Alan L. Winters