Monday night.

There is a canyon between the poets who teach and those who are taught. They speak to each other—the length is not unimaginable; they encourage one another tonight,--but the depth is unavoidable. The Professors: Blevens, Voelmer, Jakiela lay on the words as you hope a poet do. Good language like darning threads. They do not disappoint. The teachers paint while the learned write poems about paintings.

I see all the poets as I want to, at any age I chose, naked, at the height of some inspired thought: It does not matter. I close my eyes so I may hear them. The professors say, “Yes, I’ve been doing some time.” The others understand the things that can be taught. Technique, contrast, what is expected. What is poetry.

I am a hardened listener. Grandmother’s poem. There is no fucking way I can understand something like that after only hearing it once, but I listen. A little blonde punk girl says “Clit” and it is one of those words which sound so right. I like the short story about the cars, by the time the dialogue is finished I forgive him the clunky beginning.

The night reminds me of seeing live shows.  The bad ones inspire as much as the goods ones do.
One last thing, young poet, like any good huckster, you should have timing: If you go over the limit with one too many poems you are exposing your hand. What is witty turns into routine and makes one think: “They’re all the same.”