by Doug Draime
I sent them poems written
like Jackson Mac Low.
They sent back an uppity
note, telling me I was
imitating Jackson Mac Low.
I could have told them that
if they’d only fucking asked.
I sent them poems written
like e.e. cummings, written like Baraka
when he was still LeRoi Jones,
written like Bukowski
when he was still a
middle-aged angry man, written
like Kenneth Patchen
when he could still walk.
Their rejection notes come back as fast as
my poems go out.
So, I sent them the unwritten John Milton
poems, composed in his head a few days
after he went stone blind.
The chicken shits never sent back
a word about those.
September 12, 2009
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September
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- Name-checking Billy F***in Collins
- subject to availability at selected stores
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- gritty plaza rainbow
- Open Book
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- Parking Lot
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- Public Restroom
- Bringin' Home the Bacon
- Only Darkening
- Someone to Talk to
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- Poems Like Jackson Mac Low
- The Media Is The Message
- WHY I DON’T FUCK MY WIFE ANYMORE
- with friends like me...
- MY AFTERNOONS WITH DYLAN THOMAS
- The Neighbor’s Daughter
- It’s a Good Night for Drinking
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