Thursday, March 08, 2007

 

Last night I dreamt I was at a Bowery Poetry Club event that involved live interviews of the interesting and intriguing. One interview was to be conducted by my friend Barbara, wearing a giant pastel geometric-pattern turtleneck sweater from the 80s. She was interviewing Ira Glass, who was a tatooed Tongolese man. I ended up being interrogated about the state of American poetry by an Andy Warhol lookalike who spoke only French. After my interview (which was really more like a converstation in the bathroom line during intermission), the crowd began to disperse, and I thought of regaining their attention with a dramatic recital of a Theodore Roethke poem. Then I woke up.

Woke up angry, became irrational in the shower, where I pretended the wall was someone I dislike, and proceeded to make pointed comments regarding their weight, hygiene, and personal ambition. I am at my most devastating when conditioning my hair.

Hopefully tonight's reading will restore my faith in humanity. At the very least, I managed to jot some things down last night before going to bed. I miss writing. I think some new Drunken Sailor poems may be in the offing. Oh, drunken sailor, you are the thing I write about when I am too tired/screwed up/angry/stupid to write about anything else.

Also, People of the World! My Necklace Can Beat Up Your Necklace!

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