the new yorker, perfect

the new Yorker magazine
arrives,
again,
they come so fast. they block
the sunlight
from my bedroom window.
the stack rising.
how do they do it?
I flip through, back to front,
skimming
as I am want to do.
stopping only
to read the cartoons
to see if any of them actually
make me laugh.
one does.
two dogs on a chair,
paws on a desk
typing onto a computer. one
dog looks at the other
and says,
they don't even know
we're dogs.
I cut this one out and tape
it to
the refrigerator.
from there I look at the music
and movies.
the music is hopeless.
who are these people.
what ever happened
to elvis Costello?
one movie looks good, the other
is a review of an animated
movie using celebrity
voices.
just shoot me now.
poetry.
it's just plain perplexing.
I read two, three lines
and shudder.
what the hell are they talking about
and who do you have
to pay or sleep with to get a poem
published in this magazine.
the fiction makes me miss Raymond carver.
then the deep stuff. there
is an expose about mental hospitals,
I dog ear that page,
then an article about a man
who has a continual itch
under his skull that he
can never quite get to.
he ends up scratching a hole
in his head.
that sounds like a fun bath tub
read for later.
then it's to shouts and murmurs.
hit or miss.
the theme this week is the over use
of phrases like
it is what it is.
or how everyone says perfect
for anything you say to them.
let's meet in a bar later,
get drunk and then jump off the
George Washington bridge, perfect.
7 ish? perfect.
finally it's to the editorial
section, boring.
then the letters from readers
whining about last weeks
issue.
all of them smarty pants.