when I was a starving writer I used to read the major writers
        in the
major magazines (in the library, of course) and it made me feel
very bad because—being a student of the word and the way, I
       realized
that they were faking it: I could sense each false emotion, each
utter pretense, it made me feel that the editors had their
heads up their asses—or were being politicized into publishing
in-groups of power
but
I just kept writing and not eating very much—went down
       from 197 pounds
to 137—but—got very much practice typing and reading
      printed rejection
slips.

it was when I reached 137 pounds that I said, to hell with it,       
       quit
typing and concentrated on drinking and the streets and the 
       ladies of
the streets—at least those people didn’t read Harper’s. The
       Atlantic, or 
Poetry, a magazine of verse.

and frankly, it was a fair and refreshing ten year lay-off

then I came back and tried it again to find that the editors still
       had
their heads up their asses and/or etc.
but I was up to 225 pounds
rested
and full of background music—

ready to give it another shot in the
dark.