poets

the other night, for no apparent reason (though surely the plethora of drinks i'd inhaled played their part) i actually introduced myself to someone asking the painful "what do you do" question, as a poet. by the time it escaped from my lips, i decided it was too late and what the hell, to just go along with it. so i spoke in the tortured lilt and assumed that mood, that stance, askance, that lately anyway i've been dwelling in. identical to my definition of a poet. that certain way of being, perceiving...

i tried to explain that to a poet a few nights later, but he wasn't buying it. leaning back in his chair, piercingly ingesting my words, he was listening but not investing. this fella, who'd spent most of the night analyzing and interpreting me from having read - astonishingly and impressively - my whole blog just a few days before. he infused sarcasm into everything i said, overlooking even my sincerity. and i inflicted tortured depth on him. i think we were both just so fucking megalomaniacally insular that we were inflicting our egos onto each other...

and on that note, i'm off to a poetry reading. i hope the madness ends, or the fates will surely curse me by inflicting a poet on me.
egads!!
but sitting in that unfinished room in that rat-infested dive of a place, hearing words so skillfully strung together, and then sitting around, drinking, thinking, talking shit with these people, these poets... it's such a lovely, mellow way to spend a friday night (read: post-thursday-night-at-the-shop).

have a de-gorgeous weekend dahlings.