Summertime, and the publishing was easy.
What other college could have people going around asking, begging,
to have something printed by you. Yes, you.
That was back in the day,when you were, you thought, at already twenty-something, that you were brilliant.At least your peers told you you were.
You'd made your mark in the student paper, now they were after you for the literary magazine and the yearbook.
And you did deliver.
Success, at least locally.
Now at the bars, a "Wine-stoned Cowboy."
Not the same thing forty yours later, with a cant, when brilliant and broke just doesn't cut it any more.
That old song:
Nobody wants you when you're down and out.
Three million words in print, and one can't even get a bank loan. And the leprechaun in your head, so recently played by the CasinoRama floka, , yelps, "Ya wanna go, Ya wanna go?"
Ya, I wanna go, but these days, I can hardly walk.
But there must be some optimism left.
I can still try to scribble.
"Scribble, scribble scrible, eh Jones?"
The line out the song, "On Broadway:"
"And I you don't think you'll get that far
But I can play this here guitar
"And I won't quit till I'm a star
Well, the Broadway days are gone.
Radio. TV. The recording.
I go out into the street hunting for butts and booze.
At the stoplight somebody suddenly call out to you.
"Hey, I saw you on television."
"Forty years ago?"
"Yes, forty years ago."
Well, I can't quit now.