A magazine, to which I submitted some poetry, sent me a copy.For free.
Whoopee, I thought.
Momentarily.
Maybe they're publishing a poem of mine.
And this is their dear, sweet way,
Of saying so.
Alas.
A magazine, to which I submitted some poetry, sent me a copy
For free.
Apparently, to show me what real poetry looked like.
Verily, I say unto you, read this poetry to see,
to see,
how it's done in the real world.
Oh, says I.
I get it.
I'm not obscure enough.
I say what I think.
I don't write,
the sky
is
a green elephant
stretching across my visage
as I gasp blue thoughts.
I say,
You're suffocating me.
Get your fat ass out of my way.
I gently and with malice
deposit the free tome
in the garbage.
Take that. Esoteric smart asses.
Can you hear me now?
snakes in the grass,
ReplyDeletealas
my dad has a whole wall of rejection letters, he hangs them proudly
ReplyDeletethere is a poetry dispenser at our cultural center where i think you send poetry to an email address and they print it out and put it in this dispenser. the poetry i got out of it wasn't very good..."Calls from the bathroom, Fungus between the toes of life, dust and dirty dishes...." apparently yuppie's only problems are dirty dishes which makes for pretty angsty poetry.
ReplyDeleteTodd,
ReplyDeleteI have mine in a file so thick, I quit looking at it. Did your Dad ever have a breakthrough?
PS Watch out for those boys from Southie!
Stella,
Yeah, yuppie angst makes makes me want to slap them with a 2x4.
c