I'm not a known writer, not even half known. The safe bet is I'll die that way, but don't count the money yet.
I split words the way the bomb splits atoms and quit being ashamed of it long ago. I list and dig through facts seeking the shit at the bottom of the well. My clothing reeks of detergent. If it's not candid it's not real.
"There are people who are walkin' up and down the street," said Joyce, "and they don't know what they want." I'm not one of them.
Ovid said, "Everything changes, nothing is lost." I'm one of them.
Only in poetry can it all be said. Bending down on the page to send this gift brings such pleasure I can't stop.
Do you see?
Can we be healed?
Amen


Salon.com
Comments
That is the editor's input. We members are self-published, which is a deceptively smooth highway, as many of us could use the services of a really sharp editor. Having someone from salon.com scour the day's work and assemble a page of the noteworthy efforts is a task made possible only with the sense of purpose you put in the form of a question.
We'll have an answer pretty quick.
Stacey’s comment is bang on.
~R~
IT's FREE HERE!
The New Yorker prints poems as do many of the finest magazines, but I've never seen one in a publication owned by Rupert Murdoch, have you? I think they do it for reasons other than profit.