I tried to sell out by writing erotica
but nobody was buying;
now I have no artistic integrity
to go with my poverty.
Sex sells . . .
That’s what they say,
I’m so broke and sick of peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches,
sick of crossing my fingers
and holding my breath
when the cashier slides my debit card,
sick of praying to a god I don’t believe in
every time I key the ignition--
--my most recent quarterly royalty statement
reads zero units sold;
if things don’t improve soon
I’ll have to quit this silly writer game,
post a provocative ad
and show my cardboard characters
how we take it up the ass
in the real world.