Poem | Free verse | Rejection

Dear Editors

Using humor to cope with rejection

Cynics glitter in chaotic flames, sparklers on the Fourth of July shooting from brains, each entry a failed speed date.

Perhaps my match is marinating in the pumpkin spice of Maine, rotting in the juices of butter-drenched lobster,

trapped somewhere on the poetic spectrum between the rough edges of burlap sacks and eclectic hats of Hedda Hopper.

I primp to impress, switching outfits, dresses scattered in piles of edits, erasing inky mascara flakes.

I submit, exposed with my ass in the air, masticating pillows like a goat on grass, seeking a second date,

spilling marriage proposals in five-minute ticks — next, next, next. It’s not you, it’s me — the Hollywood blacklist.

I’m addicted to rejection laced in false praise, an orgasm, faked.

Context

Although I’ve had a handful of poems published in literary journals and an anthology, I stopped submitting my work three years ago. This poem is just my snarky response to my frustration with not being deemed worthy by the literary gatekeepers.

My poetry has finally found a home here at Bouncin’ and Behavin’ Poems, thanks to Martin Morrison and Jason Provencio. I thought this poem, out of the dozens collecting dust in a notebook, would be an appropriate icebreaker.

Now that I’ve similarly opened myself up to you all, I’ll post more regularly. I wrote a mix of personal and political poetry during the pandemic that will be coming soon.

Thanks for the encouragement, Randy Pulley.

American writer in Washington