Friday, February 13, 2009

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.

4 Comments:

At 7:01 AM, Blogger Nic Sebastian said...

Hang in there. (And keep blogging for us who aren't there and wish we were.)

 
At 7:45 PM, Blogger Collin Kelley said...

I'm going to be one of those genre-mixers soon, Madame Livingston. See if I buy you a drink or meal in Denver. You think Raun was giving you the side-eye, just you wait...

;-)

 
At 5:52 PM, Blogger Charles said...

I did Poughkeepsie back when I was an undergrad. The whole town. It's how I cemented my reputation as a slut, which I'm sure you heard if you spoke to any other poets at AWP. It's fairly common knowledge now, I suppose. So you actually "re-hooked" me up with PK for some sloppy seconds, but I'll take that too.

 
At 10:32 AM, Blogger hanna said...

um, i kind of love you.

 

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