What happens to fame when you have a prominent nose but no one recognizes your nose or name?
Where does literary fame go? (I knew it was him but the three champion Jeopardy contestants didn't know.) When they forget John Updike what exactly does anybody know? Do they remember the third-down pass? The jumping, sequined ass? Who was that Jeopardy winner who remembered Auguste Rodin by way of Emily Einstein ("daddy") Poe?
I've seen literary reputations disappear. It can happen quickly. Those I knew died this year. The famous who stay famous hang on, more alive than life, More alive to you by way of their songs than your own wife who sleeps upstairs and watches shows on lions and bears.
It's amazing that I--- who never did a thing to become famous, who never made a fuss over anyone, even if they were full of delight and locally famous--- I, who withdrew when there was an event to go to, "I couldn't care less" a phrase I said to myself often, though I've rooted and devoured a muffin in the narrow hallways with everybody else--- isn't it amazing? I have readers. Who is to say
who these readers are. Does it finally matter? I believe there is a sweet spot now for poetry because ubiquitous AI can formulate fine paragraphs, sing, illustrate, talk, print, but cannot write good poetry. But I can. "Today the Beatles have a billion streams," Ringo said. (I think it was Ringo.) Who will be famous tomorrow? Who chews their nails? Who is that man?
