Advertising work is also, like these face-to-face services, fundamentally oriented toward consumption, part of the production of consumption. This is one reason why O’Hara’s poetry and Mad Men would seem poorly matched if Draper were an insurance executive (like Wallace Stevens) or a banker (like T. S. Eliot), and it is likewise hard to imagine the O’Hara reader instead holding a copy of Harmonium or Prufrock and Other Observations (and not just for reasons of anachronism). Advertising and poetry share a secret affinity, so much so that advertising is often held up as an example of what poetry becomes when rendered entirely mercenary. Ezra Pound, famously, in “A Few Don’ts by an Imagiste” exhorts his contemporaries to “consider the way of the scientists rather than the way of an advertising agent for a new soap.”8 His manifesto ran in one of the very first issues of Harriet Monroe’s Poetry; thirty-three years later, the magazine published an article by semanticist S. I. Hayakawa, “Poetry and Advertising,” that makes explicit Pound’s aesthetic hierarchy. Hayakawa defines advertising as the “poeticizing of consumer goods” and is quick to note that, at a technical level, advertising and poetry are largely identical in the way that they use language.9 The difference between the two obtains only at the level of intention. Implicitly drawing on Kant’s distinction between a “free art . . . agreeable on its own account” and a “mercenary art . . . that attracts us only through its effect (e.g., pay) so that people can be coerced into it,” Hayakawa defines literary poetry as “disinterested poetry” and advertising as “venal poetry.”10 In the age of advertising, he argues, venal poetry is omnipresent, “written by the highest paid writers in this country, organized into companies of poets, rhapsodists, sub-poets, and sub-rhapsodists.” As a result, modern literary poets are forced to distinguish themselves through an abandonment of the poetic altogether: “In a world so filled with the clamor of venal writing . . . all poetry has come to sound suspicious, so that disinterested poets are practically compelled not to sound poetic.”11