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You Sucking dick w magic dust on the southside poof want to forget something like that, even if it never happened. Poetry editors don't even want to like your work, being enthusiastic makes them feel weak, like they gave in to you too easily.

Basically they are just trying their best to keep the worst stuff out of their magazines, because their goal is to be seen as lovers of literature, but not slaves to any particular style, which is another way to be weak.

They know in their hearts they are failing, because look at the really good magazines and then look at theirs, and look at the other mailings lists and then look at theirs, mostly nobodies and nitwits and hopeful hangers-on.

Editors feel they are sitting in a room spattered with shit, and much of this is because they were trying to be nice. There are different approaches you can take -- the most boring one is to announce, wearily, that you are submitting X poems, and that you published recently in The This Review and had an item in The Journal of That. But what else do you have?

The poem? I mean, what's to get? Words on paper, an attitude, spare language, you're in. Or what if you dug deep down into your soul and fetched up a panting masterpiece, heaving and twitching on the table? No one will even see it. No one will get what you had to do to land that thing and now it convicts you with its intensity. Best advice is just to grovel. I am the one leper in ten who came back to thank the poetry editor for being so insightful and kind, for seeing light and beauty where everyone else just saw mental illness.

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Storm Dense shoulder of the thunderhead cloud — Wind shushing the terrified trees — The rains rain down like ripping curtains -Reckless as the drunken river's swerve — What is that pitchfork that lights up the sky?

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He approached a diner in a restaurant and said, "That pork chop looks delicious. May I eat it? He passed a note to a bank teller: He then approached a beautiful woman and said to her: The man saved all these refusals in a biscuit tin that he kept on top of the refrigerator. It would be so easy to say, You talk too much, Or you think you're so smart, or so funny, Or you're chickenshit about this and that.

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