Writers Market

Clearly it's a market thing:
everyone writes, nobody reads.
Sentences cram manuscripts
like gas in canned baked beans.

Mortality can't bear such brick-a-brack:
colorful tomes bend bookstore shelves;
stumps of trees (made sacred for The Word)
are visible in clumps from outer space.

We find ourselves, at middle age,
competing with Old Masters
who taught us, back in school,
to change the planet with our pens.

Pens, mightier than swords or guns,
are not as mighty as The Law
(or was it merely a suggestion?)
of limitless supply and no demand.

Pens? "Factories" process words
on giga-biga-hertz machines.
"Sticks and stones... etc. bones,"
so screw this "blog," find me a brick.