“You impotent little poet shit,” she yelled.
I will quote her line in one of my poems, I thought.
It’s edgy enough for the New Yorker.
To increase my chances, I will insert seven obscure references.
From Levine’s swept gardens, to Rimbaud’s river of poverty,
stopping by at an indifferent office where Larkin worked.
From Nabokov to Mahfouz. Dance, Jakarta.
From Bishop’s shy ride to Dickinson’s stork in the dark,
with a visit to the cemetery where Lorca watches the dead.
From 609 London to Lesbos and from Ibn Rushd to Sartre.
In between, I will sunbathe the rugged, molded letters from Bellow.
god, did I forget someone important? I sure did.
Ezra Pound is better left unmentioned.
T. S. Eliot would protest the use
of an aggressive lowercase g,
while Octavio Paz would ask the lord to sing.
This way I managed to drop a few names
who won’t bother to answer back,
and I took revenge on the almighty,
although I have a favor to ask of him:
a warm meal in this permanent winter, please.
Asking for a warm bed would be greedy.
I shall also use five adjectives in a row –
outrageous, bold, peculiar, mysterious, lamenting –
and be liberal in using them.
Like the big serving of orange jam I gave myself
each time I was trusted to make my own sandwich.
I will forget some commas\ use odd punctuation;-
To spice it up, include a cliché that is also a fact & idea.
Not all roses are red, you know; ponder that a little.
How about a sentence that doesn’t make sense?
Poussière, napkin, (¡Esperar!) Ich bin –
Or, aleph tough, a wolf bluffs, woof, and rough.
When will the current squad of editors retire?
Or at least take a leave of absence?
In any case, I have a better chance at publishing with TNY
if I suck their poetry editor’s dick.
Even then, I’ll have to stand in line and wait my turn.