what does that mean?

the often unreadable,
puzzling
poetry that graces
the bi monthly issue
of the new Yorker
worries me. saddens me.
they seem to be killing
poetry,
not honoring or giving
it to the masses.
they keep the door closed
on what poetry
can be.
doling out obscurities
that only
the academic world
appears to get.
or do they?
i'm not the most literate
person in world,
nor do I claim
to write better, but
for once, other than
an occasional billy Collins
poem, i'd like to read
something that resembles
my life
or the simple lives
of others
that I know.