if Kerouac were here


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
and


"Hey!
Hey, Waitress!
Can we get some more wine
over here?"



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