Of Fame

Of the latter, before.

Of the former, after.

Simply getting your ducks in a row isn't enough.

You must plod like a caveman through a bog.

You must grunt and wheeze and stomp and spit.

There is no other way.

Fame belongs to those with the biggest mouths

and the least talent.

It rewards bullies and punishes the deserving.

It calls to attention small, pathetic spirits

and casts a shadow over large, true ones.

It isn't the sister of giants, as that

great Spaniard wrote;

instead it is a diseased and leaky proboscis

with one end stuck in the famous

and the other in their fans.

It sucks both dry, nourishing nothing

and no one in the end,

not even itself.

Pursue an art:

live for it,

need for it,

stay true to it

(while staying true to yourself)

and you are quite literally

condemning yourself to obscurity

and dust.

Die, and your statistics will spike--

for a day or two.

But you won't be remembered at all.

How could you be?

For fame lives on rotting flesh,

and gives nothing back but

poison.

~~*~~

From The Shadow or the Leaf

~~*~~

Previous poem

Next poem

~~*~~

Digital Art: What the Doctor Saw When He Looked in My Ear by yours truly