This stuff’s pretty good. Or can be. You take a hit once every two months and it kind of sets you up, you know? Hopefully? You go to the library. It’s virtuous. It’s educational. You can do your research. It only takes a couple of hours. It’s also a bit like church. Lot of grey-heads when you get down there. You get to the venue and start the count and you see that there’s about 6 guys here including 2 that are members of the team that puts this thing together. And about 50 women. Come on guys, you got a problem with poetry? It’s always the ladies that come out. The guys sit at home drooling or staring at some bull sporting contest or practicing what they do best which is being some sort of tard, but poetry on a Sunday afternoon? Come off it.
One guy came in late, stayed about ten minutes, and decamped. He had a point. The reading was turning out to be a bit of a snooze-fest. You can have good poetry kind of neutered by ineffective presentation. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Earnestness doesn’t equal effectiveness. Write that down. I mean, how do you massacre Shakespeare? He doesn’t deserve it. He put in his time. It should have been good. It wasn’t. What might one expect from a masters in creative writing? From the great uni no less. Enough said. The guy reading Lew Welch. What was he doing up there? He brought all these books and laid them out on the table to his left but no one could see what they were. He did a lot of talking but only ever read about one and a half poems by the guy he was here to represent, who couldn’t represent himself because he’s dead. He’s dead, man. Finished. And he’s got a lot of company. More is more, you know? Give him a chance.
Milder days ahead, I was thinking, regaining the concourse. We deserve it. Enough said.