poetry reading
There are prisoners swallowing their own eyeballs out of pure insanity and all I can think about is how nervous I am at the thought of reading a poem in front of a crowd of retired, wealthy survivors of life who finally have the time and courage to fill a legal pad with stories of momentary perfection; fifteen minutes of personal immortality. Ah, I shouldn’t judge so quickly. For all I know this room could be filled with long-time word junkies, fingers pleading for a cigarette break, souls born to grip a pen like me. I could be surrounded by dictionary fiends and highly influential sentence sculptors. This book shop could be growing future literary geniuses inside of flower pots hidden behind the wall of the Fiction section. Or they are just as I made them out to be: lovers of the printed word, fans of organized poetry readings, and recreational note takers taking a stab at the whole poetry thing. For them the addiction is absent. The obsession chose not to settle inside of them… and I continue to ponder whether they are the lucky ones or if they missed out on the good life.
for me they are the unlucky ones who were not chosen.
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