Pimping my poetry What began as a hobby, fitting in between kids and the groceries, leads to obsession; no longer pastime but the day’s main event. You see that you like it. You want to be noticed and hope that the lits like it. So, what came from the gut, now needs the seamstress. You tweak and you modify, in accord to the monthly theme; its ethnicity, demographic, even its politics. As you change/rearrange, geared to the place you’re submitting. So, Joe becomes Javiar. Mary, Maria; the Goldbergs, the Smiths now, etcetera, etcetera. The knish on line three, becomes manicotti, or arroz con carne, dropping the carne, for the zen and the vegan blogs. And the scene shifts location; the Bronx, now Belize, Manhattan, the midwest. You write what you live, but you kill off your accent. Fuggedaboutit Brooklyn, when you meet with the higher brow. And you write and you write till your knuckles turn green, some nights, not sleeping just you and the moon man and a half pack of Marlboros.