I met Duane Locke. He uses the Internet.
Submits his poems to ezines. If he was a novelist,
he might try to publish novels on there, too. Although
I don’t know who he would get to do it for him.
Nor do I know anyone who publishes his own novels
on there, book after book. They see there is no money in it
and pursue other avenues of social mobility. I’m not going anywhere,
so what’s the hurry. I have reached my peak. I plateaued. I hit
the glass ceiling. Since I was beneath the jazz musician,
playing in a basement, it was the glass floor.