After Christmas

A friend said of The Doors,
“The most arrogant and pompous band ever,”
I didn’t have a counter
Even though I didn’t disagree
But
I couldn’t agree, either
Since my musical palette includes The Doors,
At least the well-known songs,
Which is like saying,
I kind of like Chinese food,
At least it felt like it sounded like that
Until I started typing the sentence,
Then it sounded like something a lesser Jim Morrison
Would write,
Absent the arrogance and pomposity,
The leather pants,
The heavy drinking,
And all that mystique that fueled The Doors.

I’ve been banging away at the keys all day,
Looking to tighten up a story
Several years in the writing.
It’s lost its way
But
Is right on track
Somewhere between Fitzgerald and Kerouac
Which is pretty arrogant and pompous, I think,
To put my writing up there with those guys
Or to judge one as most excellent and the other shit
So that I could conveniently fall between them.
I suppose an argument could be made
That the literary fortune of all authors
Is made on the edges of upturned noses,
Perhaps the same is true of other creatives,
The more arrogant, the more commercial,
The more bankable
Like my friend, I don’t think I care enough to get there.

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