I didn't mean to but those were my early days of promiscuously tasting what the internet had to offer and I thought surely, surely with his distinctive voice (and my impeccable spelling) I'd simply be able to Google him and find him again: white man, in his 30's, lives in NYC, teaches for a living. Couple of collections published. Well, that narrows it down.
Needless to say I did not find him. Have not. And 3 or 4 unbacked up (who the hell backs up one's bookmarks?) hard drive crashes later, I never will. My bad. My very bad.
Ever since then I try not to make the mistake of assuming that information is at my fingertips and all I have to do is roll up my sleeve, stick my arm into the digital bin and bam! I pull out some writer's website.
"We're pregnant." Maybe it's generational, maybe I'm stupid, but when, oh, when did men start having babies? Introduce me to the man who's pushed a bowling ball through a key ring while lying on his back for, say, 5 hours and then we'll talk. In the meantime, who can write a poem with that?
"Lonely as a Witness in Vegas." I've always wondered (haven't you?) what it must be like to be both a Jehovah's Witness and a resident of Las Vegas.
We'll write a poem
together.
Needless to say I did not find him. Have not. And 3 or 4 unbacked up (who the hell backs up one's bookmarks?) hard drive crashes later, I never will. My bad. My very bad.
Ever since then I try not to make the mistake of assuming that information is at my fingertips and all I have to do is roll up my sleeve, stick my arm into the digital bin and bam! I pull out some writer's website.
What starts these junkets anyway is an elaborate preamble to writing. It's Friday, do you know where your poetry is? I look at various 'zines, walking back and forth before the storefront wondering if I should go in and if I do, will I buy? Each time I think I'm done with "the poetry thing" another line offers itself. (As in overhearing on Metro North the girlfriends talking about a hospice patient.) Here are 2 to play with in honor of April being National Poetry Month:
"We're pregnant." Maybe it's generational, maybe I'm stupid, but when, oh, when did men start having babies? Introduce me to the man who's pushed a bowling ball through a key ring while lying on his back for, say, 5 hours and then we'll talk. In the meantime, who can write a poem with that?
"Lonely as a Witness in Vegas." I've always wondered (haven't you?) what it must be like to be both a Jehovah's Witness and a resident of Las Vegas.
You write a line
I'll write a lineWe'll write a poem
together.
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