(1) You send 5 poems to "Stinky-Shorts Zine". (2) You wait 5 months.
(3) You receive an email form rejection from "Stinky-Shorts Zine" (because they're so cool they don't deal in "snail mail", as they term it).
(1) You send the same 5 poems to "Skid Mark Zine" (you send them "snail mail": because of their obsessive boutique-y focus on everything analog, and paper-based, they don't accept submishmash or email submissions. They're based in Brooklyn, by the way.)
(2) Wait 8 months.
(3) You receive a rejection slip saying, "Dear Zitty McGee, thank you for your interest in Skid Mark Zine. We liked your work, but cannot publish it, because our journal is only about poo. However, we noted that you write well about bodily excrescences. Please keep us in mind if you ever write about shit, or indeed write shit."
(1) In the past 9 months, apart from applying to 60 jobs teaching creative writing at universities as varied as "Nothing Happens Here, Virginia (subtitled: "drive 20 minutes outside our blissful, bubble-like college town and your Obama car will be torched"), and "Bougie-ville, Michigan", and "Organic-Town, -fart-sniffing, Colorado", apart from all that, and funding Inter-fucking-folio for 10 more profitable years, you have sent 40 submissions to a variety of journals, magazines and zines, many of which with silly names like "Fairly Quick Pace" or "Tin Shack" or, indeed, "Sirius Constellation", or "Plough-Selfish". Not to mention, "Skid Mark Zine" or "Stink Ville", or indeed, "Holy Shit! What's That Smell!?&^*("
(1) You have been rejected by all of them. This, you expected.
(2) Mysterious, semi-3rd party, "snail mail" spam starts arriving in your real mailbox. You figure it out, though: "come to our summer conference! It's all about how to learn about how to write better about Poo!"