Inaccessible

Collaboration? Its very mention
Turns my stomach.
This tickertape machine has clattered
In perfect rhythm and harmony
For decades under its
Belljarred lid.
Wellwishers cry: O why not circulate,
Aerate, and percolate
Your oeuvre through stony sieves of judgment?
In laymen's labs, let assayers dab it
With lukewarm acid.
Present to us, pretender poet,
Your shadowy penstrokes
And pentagrammar graphs,
That we, like tin-eared tin pan palmists,
May trace them;
Dance for us, o wayang puppet,
Your rhumba-hula of exhibition,
Exposing techniques of composition,
That we, like paedophatic pedants,
Might grade them.
I cry: O why not read for yourselves?
The gate is open, the path is clear,
I've handed out bushels of invitations
On cardstock slips
That you have lost.
I care not for the cabbage patch--
Greenbacks in the brimming till--
Nor for accolades and limelights,
Deafening blinders that bring on tears.
Ladies, take thy narwhal needles
And skeins of mediocrity
And stake your knitting circle elsewhere.