I fear I'll be driving this van until I die.
The rain and the wipers cannot wipe away my disgust.
I want to pound my head on the floor.
My writing is bent with a dull axe.
My words are knocked on the head.
"there is no remuneration other than recognition..."
"a bag of dicks for your thoughts"
I gave away my best.
Now I start over.
It's been good to be with you.
I had submitted a manuscript of 52 poems to a small press.
I got a very well-written rejection notice yesterday.
I'm going to start submitting 3 or 4 poems at a time to quarterlies, journals and magazines.
The magazines that actually pay you for your stuff want only original unpublished poems.
The stuff I've published on DKos is forever tainted. I could still use it in a book, but that strategy has failed once.
For the time being, I won't be putting up much poetry here.
I've had some very loyal readers.