I thought I might make the poetry reading
on Sunday,
but I was put off by Henry’s
editorship of “Open City”
with a grand envy of fallen fame.
He’d told me about it,
asked if I knew bukowski –
what the hell, who doesn’t know
a drunk poet
who’d given up on life
shortly after realizing
the delivery nurse was horrendous
and the best the audience
would ever muster
was showing up without pillows.
I know myself.
I didn’t go,
not for being put off – that’s tangential…
I didn’t go because I was
arrested by god;
found a divine stick that begged me to work it –
or was it me begging it
(heady moments always fail recall)?
After all, it’s much more enjoyable
living it, than reading about it… no?
screaming at low volumes
