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.

Holla.