My good friend who often writes to me and sends me bits of his poetry was in a rather sour mood several months back, and during this malaise of spirit he felt a burst of creativity that manifested in a rather pathetic Facebook post. He decided to write it down and send it to me, hopeful that I would publish his work. Given the fact no one else will publish it, and because I’m generally in favor of people having some kind of outlet, and because no one I know ever seriously considers my offer to publish their work on this site, I decided to give my friend’s work a chance. Given the fact that I am also trying to find a publisher for my work, I can sympathize. So here it is, my friend’s brief reflective poem on a prophecy concerning the fate of an unfortunate writer.
–Joshua Jammer Smith
Lines Composed in My Office while Searching Desperately for Publishers and Recognizing the Futility of the Task
Here I am. Ink on my fingertips. Alkaline has chalked crystals on the inside of my stomach. I sat on the corner of Paluxy and Main, holding my book in my hands. Holding it out to any that would pass me by. As my friends and gods passed me by, laughing in their revelry’s they looked to me for a moment. Light reflected on their tortoise shell glasses. Neglected the empty frames.
–Please, I know it’s-.
–Jesus man what happened to you?
My critic, who was once my best friend, passed me by, and I fell back upon the concrete that held me. Begrudgingly it supported my imploding form. Pages fell from my hands. Leaves of empty grass fell through my fingertips. Spirit left. Alkaline bit at me more.
And my pages and words scattered back into the stardust of mediocrity. Not even the eyes of T.J. Eckleberg would bear my failure, and I passed this earth wanting for just—.
9/9/2016, 11:30 p.m.
My friend is a bit of a drama queen, so please forgive his mawkishness.
For the record my friend has, since writing this dreary poem, published two works, so, yeah, he needs to lighten up.