Emalisa Rose

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.

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