notes from AWP
—I’m pretending not to see him so I can eat my lunch.
—But who reads that shit? About as true to life as a
—I think he judges poetry with his dick. And poets, too.
—What’s the scoop on her? Is that her husband, or is he
just hanging out in her hotel room for the duration?
—Personally I prefer not to think about his dick.
—His latest work, especially the poems about his dead father,
begin to sound human.
—Think of it as a conductor’s baton.
—Granted, she wins all the prizes, but talk about grandiose.
—The latest inductee into the goddess cult. Like back in the
sixties when sex and war were the metaphors for
—I bet they’re really confessional, and she’s a total
—He knows how to network, who to climb, and when.
Timing is everything.
—Insomnia, maybe chronic fatigue syndrome. I think it’s
just frayed nerves.
—I always admired your work but can’t figure why it’s been
—You want my phone number?
—The illusion of the narrative appears in your work, but
there’s really a thread of the unspoken narrative, right?
—Are you married? Do you have children?
—Never even answered my inquiries, the pompous bastard.
—That’s really sweet. Thank you.
—I think I have a blindspot when it comes to his work.
—Must be great to get away.
—I don’t know why they don’t just fire the asshole.
—Reminds me of a gilt frame with no picture inside.
—She’s eloquent enough, a nice cocktail poet.
—Did you see what he was wearing?
—She says it’s none of my business what she writes.
—Poetry is a private affair. A kind of masturbation. An
—So what if he is another excellent specimen of the dead
—Where are the dead mother poets?
—I like the way you think,
—Yet another vapid, beautiful wind-blown babe-poet for
the cover of APR.
—Let’s go out for a beer somewhere.
—I sure wouldn’t want to live in his skin.
—A local dive would be nice.
—The way I see it, you’re better off not getting famous
—I never even send out my work.