when it was nice

dodge poetry festival today, poets like celebs like normal people just swarming. almost, as reed used the term but in reference to strip clubs on the west side highway, the mecca of poetry festivals. crap out of luck when i approached charles simic, my muhammad if you will, to tell him how much i admire him, etc. and through my plea "excuse me, mr. simic" he tunneled to lucille clifton leaving me mere feet away, shaking in my sperry's. it's exhausting to be ignored by a poet.

under the two o'clock tent i annunciated my p's & q's and self-consciously critiqued myself as i stood in front of the mic and thought, "shit, that's what i sound like when i say that?" a's as tired as a long islander's but it was all right in the end, i guess. got to talk with weems and listen to meng break the student/teacher code and talk about smoking weed to him as he laughed enthusiastically. brilliant guy, no one to judge. reminds me of talking with mal earlier this week as his old self slurred into the receiver and told me to go home, smoke a j, and take a nap. life, man.

now i'm back in rainy shit manhattan all sick and hopped up on cold medicine waiting to walk a friend to the a train so she doesn't get lost although it's easy to get to, also easy to make a wrong turn but that applies to anywhere and anything, really: losing your way.