who are these nameless people called the editors?
passing judgment on the work of others
without a portfolio of their own
mailing printed and unsigned rejection slips
with all the care of a New Orleans prostitute
giving head to Reverend Jimmy Swaggert
poets who give a damn about these bloody executioners
condemn themselves to a lifetime of stillborn expectations
an eternity in that section of Hell reserved for hopeless romantics
who give poetry readings where the audience
only consists of poets who think others give a gravely shit
about any other poems but their own
or listen to friends and family lie about how great
their self-published vanity chapbook is
until the bleak but only honest writer in Hell
Louis-Ferdinand Celine tells the poets they desperately need
the nameless people called the editors.