On One Wanting to be the One

I wanted to be a famous poet, but to be famous,
I had to make the sun, moon and stars famous,
each particular tree, each leaf, each twig famous
(Why not? The setting sun does it?); the smell
of my unwashed sweaty sheets, the imagined indifference
of the fronts of the backs of heads moving away —
make them all famous; you and your all-to-familiar
needs and frustrations — famous! Every damned crack
in every damned ceiling and even the gleam of a computer
just out of a clean, stiff box so complicated with compartments
and molded foam that one hesitates to scrap it —
even the shape of spit in the wind wants to be made
famous, everything promising, "you scratch my back,
and..." - must everything start from scratch?

I don't know about fame. It's like you're the President
and can't do anything except kowtow to those
you owe favors. I mean what's so special about
this universe? How many trillions of our famous years
are 15 minutes to a galaxy? Agreement is fame
and fame is agreement. If I say (Lennonizing),
"I think I disagree," I lie, lionizing myself
with all those lying eyes I can't hide, but one does,
one disagrees.

Dean Blehert