to read some of the poetry
in the new yorker
magazine,
but i get a headache
at line one.
i really want to know what
the poem means.
honest i do.
but the words just bounce
off my brain.
yet, i'd like to
raise the bar and write
one, that will not
come back to me
after i send it with my
tattered resume.
i want to write a poem
just like the one i'm
reading,
puzzling and full of
bizarre references, ancient
mythology.
i want to confuse
the reader, make him struggle
and think that he's
not smart enough to get me.
please i beg of you,
new yorker magazine,
pick me, pick me.
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