grovel pig

by Karl Koweski

the small press attention whore
sends constant emails
hi, how are you
equates to
acknowledge me, I exist
three a day
to a grocer’s list
of thirty wannabe writers

each message
each existential crisis
each spat with her lover overseas
or her subsidiary lovers
closer to home
every suggestive photograph
every depressive note
appended with the notation
this is just for you
just for you
just for you
and you
and you
you too
but not you over there
I heard about you
and that other
small press skank

she’s the queen of the underground

thirty beams of light
erases shadow
thirty mirrors reflect
the literary image
she desperately cleaves to

a secret divided thirty ways
isn’t much of a secret at all

but of course
that’s the idea, isn’t it?


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