I was invited to a reading
and being me and without a phone
I arrived late
sat in the back
and they went on with the show
not knowing I was there.
A jouncy coed with dyed black hair
shaved on one side with pale skin
and a red t-shirt hand lettered
to read "what R U staring @
asshole?" asked me: "Whaddya want?"
I ordered the cheap wine.
Poets were preaching
in sanctimonious intelligible vocalization
about the extenuating circumstances of an ethereal
discourse concerning the aspects
of spaghetti as a viscereal metaphor
for the free association of culpability concerning
the more animalistic attributes towards proliferation.
(reams of incoherent detached bullshit)
I thought if Kerouac were here
he'd throw up
and then he'd drink some more wine.
So I swallowed back my poems my words
catching in my throat
Can we get some more wine