The editors
of your fine magazine
will not accept
waxing
of any kind
on love, sex or dying.
The editors
of your fine magazine
issue an admonishment,
insisting
that there are
other importances in life.
The editors
of your fine magazine
want snow-shoveling,
jazz
or maybe verse
on the verse of others.
The editors
of your fine magazine
call for unique
paeans
about peculiar beauty
in Times Roman type.
So I’m left to wonder
if the editors
of your fine magazine
would be interested,
instead,
maybe charmed,
by the hip experiment
of poetry about
the unmatched excellence
in the great gnat black
shit I just took
and flushed away.
(2003)
