Oh man what a punched in a poet’s face hurrying stuck
in traffic
to the Folger seeing off to my right
G… S….. long braided
boxed-in a plexi-glass bus
stop
in a bad way slumping over slobbery drunk but beautiful
it is me me! G…!
another sensitive poet type
driving on not stopping the car that choking thoroughfare
not stopping crushed traffic not lurching not a car door wide open asking
hey brother can I take you somewhere help you up
worried if were he (S…..) or would I (stop) neither
he nor I
would make it to the issue before the panel creative
would not not not not not not not
So I tell him
the story
S….. (unbraided haircut clipped tie new leather shoes) or whoever up there on a stage curtains fluttering
from the cheap seats nervous choking on my own flaming words but loud and
sensitive master poet type
made a joke about it
(which was unexpected)
while that other dumb poet A…. C……. diddled about diddling with language
as if hand equaled hand job
(which was expected)
and the rest well, offended, and I quote, blah blah blah blah blah
So,
where does this travel take us beyond very small peevish boy
bitterness and confession protecting preserving one’s little self
some flaying blinding around this paltry bloody nose
frivolous punching out in air
But,
Roy Bryan walked out to get drunk one block down from auditorium.
At the bar, John Rivers shows me his breath-taking calligraphy on some cheap certificates.
One densely bearded man insisted he knew, I blurted out
”oh thank God”, he slipped nervously away, my ratty blazer.
And C…… F….. made the valuable nonsensical point about delivery, public forums and other sensitive persons
at the Folger
push my question abstraction (you may park it, dear, in my Capital reserved parking slot right out front)
even after a truly desperate guy here from Latin American turmoil frantic fumed pleaded straight
to our silly guilt-ridden insincere self-deprecating etc. etc. etc.
Never mind, for Christ sake’s, who cares
what a dope I am
geez of course
I’ve got to get out of the God Damn car.