FOREWARNED
I grew up imagining myself a writer, even publishing a short story in a “little” magazine in my early twenties; still have an issue of that magazine on my shelf. As the saying goes, no one likes to write, everyone likes to have written. Me too.
What a wonder it would be if others enjoyed the result, perhaps even able to recite what I've written from memory, as if it was a verse from a favorite song?
Poetry seemed like the obvious choice. What are these poems exactly? Ditties? Country songs? Word plays? You decide. It’s not as if I’m expecting a random house call from Simon or Shuster.
Ah, vanity. Publishing that is.
So there you have it...
Except you don't actually have it yet, do you.
But if you have Kindle Unlimited, or will pay any money to discover what it really means for Atlas to shrug, press one of them buttons under that selfie-taking Olympian.
Listen
Audible
Objectified
Aphrodite, see through nightie
in possession of both hands,
although Venus, just between us,
is more popular with fans.
Same old goddess, ample bodice,
is it love or is it lust?
None wear nylon, but De Milo
cuts a more impressive bust.
