it becomes also something of an amusing exercise
in the right to be a free writer
by submitting to The New Yorker.
While I would kill
a movie theater full of people
just to have my shitty work included
with the amazing writers within,
I understand why you do what you do.
I understand why you move past my specific poems
and go for the trees and knees of our contemporaries
who pander to your bullshit bravado of topical nonsense.
That said, the curse is to deal with my stupid submissions
for as long as I live,
so if Kevin Young is exhausted by me,
which he shouldn't be, he has to resolve that he has another thing coming.
I realize my poetry isn't for every turd on 3rd avenue,
but I will not stop sending it, because I firmly want/believe
that I will one day perish with that tagline next to my nothing,
therefore I applaud and envy the spirit of the next submission,
but hope they dig this one.