Vendetta I feed my gluttony to the page, white and bottomless it takes and takes and takes; its favorite meal is yearning stew and the big fleshly ladles that stir, turning turning turning the contents to a thin paint gleam like the effulgent blood of angels. In Response To Prestigious Literary Journals I’m sure you expect me to sit patient and crumb upon your nine month response to words that weep from my fingers, as you take your sweet and careful time to tell me no your tears are too sour. I’m sure you expect me to smile when I send you money I do not have for an automated rejection; we wish we could offer a more personalized response, but we simply don’t have the time or numbers… I also, magazine, do not have the money for button click heartbreak. I don’t have the time for your no simultaneous submissions policy; so yes, I shall continue to carpet bomb every magazine I see, no matter how “rude” it seems. Like all pain, mine demands to be seen. Emerging Last month it was Ginsberg who uprooted my flowery words and replanted them in the spry soil of famine India. Beginning of October it was Sylvia who beat nails of rhythmic craft into my paper mâché soul. Now it is Anne who’s Sexton stories of fifties madness and feminine isolation strangles my stanzas like the mellow fists of monoxide.