of extra strength Tylenol.
a tall glass of cold water.
i have to sort through nine thousand
half baked poems
to find five or six to send to
The Sun Magazine.
they pay by the line and in
copies.
maybe with a few legitimate
publications
i can face the day better.
i'll show them.
i got your modern contemporary
confessional poetry
right here New Yorker.
i swallow two pills, gulp
down some water and dig in.
i hate everything i write
within an hour of writing it.
but somehow, by luck
or magic, divine intervention,
a few pop up worthy
of attempting
to publish.
those are usually the ones
that surprise me, and make
me say wow,
who wrote that? me?
no way.
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