Memento From Chicago & Thieving Poet Blog
This is why I don't sleep in the same room with poets. I wake up in the morning with a giant bruise and nobody has any idea how it got there. I wish I could say I was drunk, but I wasn't. Just a warning for those of you considering sharing a hotel room with Jill Essbaum. She seems really nice and sweet . . .
Speaking of injured poets who likely deserve it, Rauan Klassnik has a blog now.
He asked me what I thought of it and I told him it sucked big floppy donkey dick.
Why would I say such a thing?
Because I'm jealous that his twisted, demented book gets more attention than my fucked-up, weird book.
I'm pissy like that. Probably why poets beat me in my sleep.
Speaking of what goes through poets' minds in the dark hours, sometimes Rauan e-mails his dreams and asks what I think. When I tell him, he scoffs.
One time I dreamed that Rauan stole thousands of dollars out of a Target cash register. He offered to share, but I wasn't interested in becoming his accomplice. I ran into a casino for refuge.
It's just not safe being around the poets.