Thursday, January 31, 2008


Most of the poets I've seen in the last few years got their start by holding a cigarette behind their head and yelling "OH!" Before that, I was disillusioned by being the best poet in the allegedly "Advanced" poetry class at Dickinson College, where laureates like Leslie York made me discuss the merits of poems that started with a different, less funny "Oh," like, "O' in that place free of time and space/ I gave my love to your face..." I think this might start a long Tweener tradition of calling people out by name. How's that virginity thing working out for you, Leslie? (These faggots can't track us down on the computer can they? Probably too busy with their dicks in their asses you know what I'm saying?? OH!!)

But last night, spurred by the promise of free shots and other drinks, we went to the Bubble House in West Phallujah to see our friend and New York barkeep Shafer Hall say a few words that rhyme but in a symbolic kind of way. Shafer was good and got better with more shots. These other two poets really sucked but I don't want to get into it or they'll call me a homophobe. Don't we need some new terminology for that stuff? Whether you're afraid of gays or just really not afraid of making fun of them, you all get lumped into the same homophobe camp. Doesn't make sense to me. I bet they drink a lot in the homophobe camp but listen to shit music. College, we'll call it. Dickinson College.

Then, all of a sudden, a curveball entered the proceedings. A dude with a guitar and he's gonna play it! I was kind of pissed, mostly because I was on the inside half of a booth and couldn't get up to leave. This wasn't no open mic. You know where there's an open mic? In your mom's garage. What's worse, this guy had the nerve to play a shitty acoustic open mic song... with no lyrics. That and some other song that ended, "Bluebird.... bluebird.... bluebird...." If I knew this guy's name, I'd call him out, too. Practice, motherfucker. BY YOURSELF.

Anyway, then we rocketed across the South Street bridge belting out Village Green Preservation Society and got piss drunk at Dirty Frank's. I think people might have been playing trivia or some shit? I woke up at 6 AM with a plate with two pieces of pizza on my chest that I think must have been fished from the trash. All in all, poetry is all right with me.

EDIT: The Tweener has been advised that calling people out by name is punishable by Carl's Jr. sized fines in Pennsylvania, so fuck it.

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