some other guy, and chris nealon: reading

some other guy, and chris nealon: reading

            The first reader was an ol nerved man with a lot to say about his poetry. A math poet, I’ll call him, because he seemed to weave his poems with computations. I don’t really remember any of his poetry because he was a lackluster reader. But I like old people like that. Even with his monotone, he seemed to have more life than the youth, with his half grin smile and wit joke.

           

            It was kinda like watching a mediocre movie with a friend you wanted to kiss but too afraid, except it was nothing like that. It was like being awkwardly stoned, sitting next to one’s poetry workshop teacher and a girl with legs too long. I was lumpy and nostalgic then. I wondered what made you so sick. I wondered if c4c got you sick. Then I remembered I had c4c, too, a likely flatulence brewing within me. Did my imaginable fart make you leave? I don’t feel bad about it, I’m just interested.

            The first reader was done reading and I clapped for him like I clap for everyone.

            The second reader came up and his name is chris nealon. I’ll call him a language poet. Man, the man was dressed up good. If I were to analyze his getup, that would make this response much longer. I won’t. But I could tell how he wrote. He was a lazy poet like me, with a phd. He talked about cars and social blinkers. It was nice, because it was a night to

            fuck the establishment.

After that, I thought about checkers. Does chess really have more elegance? The seats were terribly uncomfortable. Poetry is about complaining, you see.

            I liked the way nealon spoke. Calm like a sniper but always hit the punchline.