Rats and writers
As I write this I can look out the window ( I am very fortunate in that) and see the fruit rats leap happily from the juniper trees, where they live encased in a warm needly nest, to the orange and lemon trees, where they hollow out the fruit until it resembles Saddam's empty warheads. We have tried to discourage them by all means except summary execution, which my oath as a sentimental vegetarian forbids.
Likewise, kiss-and-tell writers, like all those who hove to Monica, cigaratrix of passion and power, seem happily to persist and prosper. I am also weary of "world and cosmos" explainers who lack a sense of humor.
Being entertained by Stephen King or Anne Rice is one thing, and pretty innocent fun in spite of the sometimes gruesome subject matter.
As Holden Caulfield might say ( friend Allez), " At least those two writers are HUMAN, for Christsake . . ."
But good poets get overlooked and undercompensated (like Stan Rice, R.I.P.) and Ellen Bass because somebody writes a "Something-or-Other-Testament" which communicates such awesome theological arcana as , " . . .the whole universe consists of energy . . ." and makes millions. Meanwhile, small university presses ( who publish most poetry in this country of any quality) fold because of lack of funding.