I want so badly to meet a he or she
That is besotted by my rhymes so completely
That crying aloud, “I must have another look,”
This worthy soul simply must make a book
In which we will happily connive to collude
And which, of course, will always include
Any and all of my poems, funny or sad
As well as the ones of adventures I had
On my way to being the poet I turned out to be;
A published poetic version of me, myself and me.

I can see it now, the crowds, the adoration
All in flashing movie-scene combinations
Ending up with me no longer craving popularity
And desperately seeking some anonymity,
Tiring of interviewers and their nosy questions
And reviewers with their hints and suggestions
About the meaning and the depth of my words,
Saying the most inane things I have ever heard,
Like art critics saying what meaning is or is not
Conveyed by a big white canvas with a red dot.

But, never mind. I’ll gladly risk getting wealthy
And hearing my name more often than is healthy;
From having professors teach with my rhymes.
And I’ll put up with the frequent bad times
When I have to figure out what to do with
The amount of money I used to think was myth.
I’ll wear the baseball cap and sunglasses out
Shopping at the grocery store and the mall.
Bring on your flipside of personal success;
I am ready for that degree of unhappiness.

Brent Kincaid


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