|Ugh! Open mike night.|
I'm just back from the Poet's Conference. 150 losers who look just like me. It cost $200 to get in, but nobody paid, as we all managed to sneak in the back door.
It was dreadful. Everybody kept talking about themselves and their "work". "Work", however, is the one thing these fellows never do.
Lots of drinking and smoking. One Poet got so wasted that at 4:00 am he was parked under my window singing to me, thinking I was his "lady". Well, his "lady" finally arrived and hauled his butt away - his "old lady", I should say. All 500 pounds of her. Dreadful woman, hideous, sweaty.
I did get into an interesting conversation with one of the Poets outside a break out session. None of us attended any of the sessions, by the way, but we talked a lot in the hallways. He was telling me about his "work" and he insisted that Scythian rhymed with vision, if pronounced with three syllables, vis-i-on. "Hardly worth it," I observed. He glowered at me.
I immediately hated him, except for one thing. He cared about rhyming.
There was very little rhyming going on. Too tricky, you know. And the only meter I could find were the ones you put quarters in on the street.
On the final night I had a dream. The whole lot of us were one big snake eating its own tail. And we smelled of roll-your-own cigarettes and cheap whiskey.
On the way home, I passed a shopping mall. I saw Santa with kids on his lap. They looked up at him with wonder, awe, reverence. These little innocent creatures, filled with hope and love - these were the only real poets I saw all week.