I had a beautiful few days at a poetry festival. My panel went swimmingly. I saw a lot of people I like, a few people I love, had some gorgeous conversations about poetry, and now I want to kill people. Not
my spouse anyone in particular for breathing any reason. Just because I have no inner social reserves.
I wrote up a cheery thing for my real-life persona blog, but didn’t post it. I don’t want to dwell on the fact that I heard a thousand poets, and only one dud reading. I want to growl that Dud Reader had a book and I don’t. I want to figure out why everything is so hard to do and tolerate today.
I was a total fraud, as I haven’t been writing poetry at all. I’ve been
wasting my life working very hard on The Fucker. I haven’t written a new poem in over six months. I revised a poem before I read it on Sunday morning and I was surprised I still could.
I want to think about how Famous Poet said that a lot of people give up half way through a poem and take the easy way out. She read a bunch of poems by other people that did not take the easy way out, and now I hate most contemporary literature. Fucking try harder, you hacks.
What’s your hangover?