Wish you were here
I don't like the number 49.
It haunts me. No, stalks me.
I'm stalked by 49. In all its permutations. I can't even read the newspaper without it mocking me.
If I could finger bang 49. I would.
Not in the nice finger bang way.
I saw too many poets today. It felt unnatural.
If ever I didn't belong somewhere.
Fiction people are nicer.
I don't belong with them either.
But no fictioneer ever made me cry and I appreciate that.
Thanks Barrelhouse, you guys are OK, even though you fuck up a perfectly straight forward drink order, you monkey fucks.
Some lady heard me say "fuck" and was all FUCK! And I was all fuck fuckitidy fuck fuck fuck.
I had a really nice dinner.
Nice people paid for me.
Nice POETS who write PROSE paid for my meal.
Even though I have absolutely no respect for genre-mixers.
My soul conflicted and then a taxi arrived.
I went to Bruce's panel.
Before all that nonsense.
It was good.
I hooked Charlie Jensen up with Poughkeepsie.