The brown, self-addressed envelope lay comatose upon the unpolished floor. The postman probably just carelessly shoved it through the slot of the windowed door. How kinder it would have been to burn it on the cement stairs in front of house. I recognized my own handwriting. I knew before I opened that this was return of poems.

 

I left said envelope on the counter through the press of obligations of the Hallowe’en season because I am a mega-big coward I am very particular about when I read certain items of mail. The text opened with the familiar words: Not in your lifetime will these poems see publication even if no Children of the Colossus still stride the world. O.K. it was not worded with these exact words nor with quite such cruellers of rejection.

 

There was the usual thankfulness in ‘giving us the opportunity to read your manuscript.’ There was the additional add of their ‘enjoyment’ of reading and their abject failure of will to publish these four hundred poems. Just kidding, I sent the mandatory four, double-spaced with one inch margins. I am glad I followed the guidelines because then I was told ‘We have considered it carefully.’ Not morbidly, wantonly nor clownishly ― but carefully.

I knew the kicker was about to come and slumped onto the plush divan, covering myself with leopard skin throw, after putting on  walrus skin petiteslippers and placing a chilled linen cloth (3700 thread count) upon forehead. The next line confirmed deeply etched intuition: ‘. . . but we regret that we cannot keep the work.’ Keep it? I did not send it to you to keep. I sent it to you to publish you cross-eyed deformed children spawned by a cross between terriers, mugwarts, skunk cabbage and musk oxen.

 

 ‘scusa. Calmé. Calmé.

 

All was not well in Happyland and this might explain some of the ferocity of expression of some of porch pumpkins.

 

There are hours when one needs a gin fizz, a banana cream pie, a harmonica, a box of Smarties, a case lot of tissues and an entirely new wardrobe of writing tuxedos. [I might add I now fizz without the alcohol.] However, there were more words but once rejection is understood, it was difficult to complete reading of the photocopied, unsigned correspondence, printed in a very eco-friendly manner on a quarter of 8.5 by 11 white, low-grade, really cheap paper. Who could read with tears streaming like Niagra Falls?

 

‘Fair enuff,’ I thought as I randomly chowed down on comfort foods, ‘It’s their rangy poetry journal. I’ll just start dating online and meet a wealthy plus person who will finance a poetry journal whenceforthly becoming the prime poetry competitor.’

My sobs quelled as I contrived revenge at audacity to forward mail prior to the festivities of the Hallowe’en season, leaving me no choice but to dress as poetry publisher[slash]critic.

 

O!Edgar!Nevermore! . . . I remain unpublished yet undaunted. I admit, to mortification of soul blackened with rancorous thoughts, I plotted revenge using a new Retribution Software package that came with an update. How handy. As ultimate punishment I am working on 4 new poems weekly, really unstintingly stinky, horridly odious items that shall be sent to same publisher. For example [as yet untitled],

How I love your little, chubbette ankles

And the clever braces you wear

On your 6 remaining teeth.

So obviously in need of dental as you are so sweet.

Especially goodish is the softness

Of your hair that reminds me of bunny hares.

I will love you forever just as I like mac & cheeze

And should you rant you’ll marry me I’ll be like pleazed.

The good poems will be submitted to publications of more obvious refinement of taste.

 

‘scusa. Must return to this morning’s EX-acto knife project. I am X-ing this city from all old school atlases I possess. Oddly, there are some other cities missing. It’s becoming a bit of a sliced up world. Wow, this is a really old Atlas. Atlantis is shown on page 24.

 

All mordant humor/humour aside, it was a speedy recuperation 'cause, well, 'my heart is like an open highway and I think he said I did it my way' (Thanks Mr. Adams) . I have no idea the reason I remain  positive, as optimistic as Linus awaiting Le Grande Pumpkin. I am a cesspool of hope.

© Sharilyn Calliou. 2 November, 2009. All Rights Reserved.

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