Call For Submissions

You are calling for submissions
and I
am still on your mailing list.

This digitized sneer;
this unsolicited reminder.

I have worked to
put this all behind me.
I have walked backward
so that I might
bend down and erase my tracks.

Is this what you want? My submission?

My words, which you so blithely chewed and swallowed, are long
since excrement. I wager they were rough when they came out of
the other end.

You say you will not censor
any poet’s words
though long ago
your red pen
edited my life
mercilessly.

I sat and folded
your fucking zines
but commas
and periods
were already disappearing
from under my
sentences.
You left me without a clause.

Still,
you insist on sending these calls
and I will be deaf
from the ring
should I refuse to
answer.

This is what you asked for,
but not what you deserve.

This is my submission,
though I hope
you know by now,

I will never submit.

I’ve taken your name off of the screenplay

Wake up.

 

You were always unreliable,

Mank,

they told me not to hire you.

 

Said you’d drink me into the ground

and that you did,

though something must be said

for the journey itself.

 

So, no–

I don’t know what to think now,

except that angles like yours

don’t exist in nature.

 

I will label you a thief.

 

Tie your name to a string

and tie that string to my wrist

so that I drag it everywhere.

I will find the world’s dirtiest places

and walk until the soles of my feet

are gone.

 

And, lo,

the next time you try to sign something,

you will be at a loss.

Your hands will fill with soot.

 

Wake up.

Please respond.