Cleveland

November 19: Reading with Kimberly Johnson at Cleveland State University as part of the Cleveland State University Poetry Center's Writers/Reading Series, Fenn Tower Theater, 1983 E 24 Street, Room 102, Cleveland, OH.

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Finally blogging again… about CLEVELAND. I am lying in bed, sick with a cold (or maybe—God forbid it—an allergy to the BAD KITTY I LOVE SO MUCH!)… tickly throat, itchy eyes, seemingly continual sneezing…

Since our last installment, I read in Cleveland, Providence (lovely, but more on that later…), Hudson (also later), Buffalo, and taught a class in Rochester. I am off to Athens, GA on Tuesday, and if I don’t get to writing about CLEVELAND now, well… I’ll be impossibly behind.

I am also on tenterhooks waiting to see (at MIDNIGHT) if the New Yorker really is going to publish the Talk of the Town profile that they fact-checked with me last week… it’s never over till the fat lady sings, I always say, and plus: I fully expect to be MORTIFIED.

But back to CLEVELAND: I arrived… dead tired… more tired than I have ever been in my life (OK, hypothermia on the three-month NOLS trip I took before going to college might actually take that cake)… at the Wyndham…. NEVER EVER STAY AT THE WYNDHAM IN CLEVELAND.

I sensed (from my management days at the hedge fund) that the fundamental problem with the Wyndham was not the nice people (everyone from the clerk at the desk to the room service people to the valet was very nice), nor was it the building, which, though a bit run-down was perfectly functional enough; rather it was MANAGEMENT. MANAGEMENT didn’t seem to communicate with the underlings very well… no one seemed to know quite what was going on elsewhere in the building, which resulted (most spectacularly—there were other incidents) in me being woken up my last day to the sound of a VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND ABOVE MY HEAD. This VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND caused in me a fight or flight response, and I ended up showering in a kind of freak-out mode and running out of that place with my hair dripping wet and my suitcase poorly packed just to get away from the VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND.

Before I ran out, however, I called the front desk and, before hearing them say hello or saying hello myself, I put the receiver up to the ceiling so they too could hear the VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND. I then hung up. A manager then called. I chewed him out about the VERY LOUD DRILLING SOUND saying they should really warn people about this sort of s---. He assured me that 80% of the hotel was usually “out and about” before they started with the DRILLING and I assured him that I didn’t give a f--- because I was a member of the other 20%. He then apologized and tried to offer me a free stay another time, but I told him I was sorry because I WOULD NEVER BE SETTING FOOT IN CLEVELAND AGAIN.

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But that was the Wyndham. The time I spent at Cleveland State itself was rather lovely. I was hosted by an old friend, Michael Dumanis. Michael, being the highly competent administrator he is really put me to work. Here are some nice poetry students from the first engagement I had—a lunch, which was supposed to be with memoir and nonfiction students, but ended up being attended exclusively by poetry writers, I believe. Here’s one nice fellow:



And another:



A couple more:



[Is New Yorker up? I don’t see why it would be, since it’s 11:20, and they never go up until midnight, but I’m feeling bonkers, so let’s check… Um, nah-ah…]

Here is the CSU building with “CSU” on its façade in bright green letters; Michael is pretty sure the campus was modeled on a prison. (I believe the campus where Cate Marvin—Michael’s co-editor on Legitimate Dangers—works was also modeled on a prison (or maybe it was a mental institution… oh wait… I think her campus actually _was_ a mental institution…. Anyhoo….)):



Here is the class—disbanding—that I spoke with after lunch. It was a nonfiction class (Looks more Superfriends-Hall-of-Justice than prison-ish, this one). Because I have a memoir, Michael really had me do double-time!:



Here is a poster that made it all “feel real”:



Me waiting to talk with Cleveland NPR. All anyone ever wants to talk about is poker!!!:



Here is the link to the interview… I was frightened to listen to this, but it ended up being “OK.” Hopefully the New Yorker will also be “OK” (though I am fully expecting to be MADE A FOOL OF)!: http://www.wcpn.org/index.php/WCPN/an/15311/

(Speaking of—I almost forgot. Back in 2001-2002, when I was TRAPPED in Las Vegas, I actually wrote and pitched a Talk of the Town profile to an editor there named Nick Paumgarten (who was actually a senior at my high school when I was in tenth grade, but that is another story). I think I was baby-sitting for my sister a lot back when I did this, because I remember writing while staying in a sort of condo apartment… I would kind of strew a bunch of salami and cheese—and also fruitloops—all over the apartment for the baby to pre-occupy herself with, and then run into the bedroom to write a little bit (and read Dante’s Inferno—great book!). Pokemon was a godsend back then… Here is the piece. I think it’s not half bad!:

"
Never a city to shy away from the use of superlatives, Las Vegas has, in the past few years, laid claim to hosting the world's biggest gift shop (Bonanza), the world's largest capacity hotel (The Venetian), and now, the country's most successful master-planned community. Just twelve miles southwest of the Strip, a vast expanse of tract housing for the rich called Summerlin has been metastasizing at such a rapid rate that even its planners are astonished. "I was once a reporter," says Summerlin functionary Tom Warden, a tall and dazzlingly tan man with the prickly confidence of Survivor host Jeff Probst, "and I remember when they built the road. We reporters called it 'the road that leads to nowhere.' But now we're the number one master-planned community in the country!" In honor of this distinction, The Howard Hughes Corporation (posthumous corporate scion of millionaire businessman Howard Hughes and Summerlin developer) recently hosted the "Summerlin #1 Celebration," which took place in The Willows, one of Summerlin's seventeen subdivisions. At the center of the festivities was a much-publicized attempt at breaking the world's record for the largest group hug, an achievement that, while it might have pleased the Hughes who was known for breaking a number of air speed records, would most probably have abashed the well-known Las Vegas recluse.

The previous record of eight-hundred and ninety-nine was set by New York brokerage firm Goldman Sachs and reported in a December 2000 issue of this magazine. When asked to explain the reasoning behind this new attempt at breaking that record, Warden chanted, mantra-like that "Summerlin is now the number one master-planned community in the country!" Less vociferously, but more to-the-point, Melissa Warren, Warden's blonde and bubbly Hughes Corp. contemporary, explained, "It's just a really touchie-feelie, warm and fuzzy way to bring the community together!" What better way, in other words, to celebrate the success of a master-planned community, than with a master-planned group hug?

As a lure to the less touchie-feelie segment of the Vegas population (and in grand Sin City tradition), the Hughes Corporation offered a choice of a custom golf tournament, a children's birthday party for seventy-five, or a family-style barbecue for fifty close friends to the winner of a raffle that only participants in the group hug effort would be eligible to win. As an added draw, the Summerlin-area school that sent the most huggers would win $1,000 and a free ice-cream social -- not a bad jackpot for members of the under-age set. But as hug-time drew nigh, no one seemed concerned about the spoils. "We're just two old ladies wanting to do it for the fun and free cake," squealed a jolly retiree named Billie Barry. And then, as if on cue, Cora Williams, Billie's cheery, bird-like friend chirped: "We just wanted to see what it's all about and get a hug!"

At precisely 11:30 a.m., the desert sun blazing down upon the lush, green, and expertly manicured Willows Park, the huggers congealed into a ring. Warden took the stage with Summerlin Councilwoman Lynette Boggs-McDonald, and recited the rules: "Don't get too carried away," he joked, with a perky élan. "We will feel the love!" The entire group then did a mangled version of the wave, the motion of which traveled the circumference of the giant hug. As final and dramatic prelude to the attempt at breaking the record, councilwoman Boggs-McDonald, led the group in a mass Hokey Pokey dance. "This could be the world's largest Hokey Pokey too!" cried Warden.

As the group hug commenced, "What the World Needs Now is Love Sweet Love" warbled onto the PA system, and for just one shining moment (a full minute, to be exact -- the required duration to make it official in the eyes of the people at Guinness), Cora and Billie and everyone else stood shoulder to shoulder, arms wrapped shyly around one anothers' waists, and -- well -- hugged.

By Monday, the city had returned to business-as-usual. Warden and his partners sat blithely in their air-conditioned corporate offices, and Cimarron High School had been awarded the coveted ice-cream social. Only five-hundred and eighty Las Vegans had registered for the group-hug attempt, a number far short of the record, but Vicki Blazer, another Hughes Corp. crony remained unfazed. "We don't know if there's an existing Hokey Pokey record," she mused. "If not, we'll try to open a new category." The people at Guinness are notoriously miserly with new categories, however, and it remains unlikely that Las Vegas will be able to lay claim to "World's Biggest Hokey Pokey." The ghost of Howard Hughes, producer and director of The Outlaw and paranoid aficionado of sealed-off hotel suites, continues to rest in peace.
"

The editor pointed to the apparently too-recent Talk (mentioned in the body of the piece) on the Goldman Sachs hug (note THE IRONY... also THE LESSON: one should never buy stock in corporations that participate in group hugs is what I've learned)… so he didn’t run my piece… I was demoralized and never tried again...

Anyway.

After the NPR, I went to another lunch (I had three full days in Cleveland, which was fine, but also at THE WYNDHAM, which was not fine); this one was all poets. Here is one nice woman (Michael is to her right):



This is Kimberly Johnson, my co-poetry-reader, giving a completely 100% fascinating (and kind of effed up) talk on infidelity as a trope invoked by Renaissance poets to help illustrate the relationship between God and the human soul:



She handed out this gem of a poem by Robert Herrick (Imagine any “s”s in brackets actually look like lower-case cursive “f”s—apparently that was how the typography was back then… and readers would pick up on the fact the “s” actually looked like an “f” (and vice versa)—a kind of typographical pun):

Luke II
Ble[s][s]ed be the paps which Thou ha[s]t [s]ucked

Svppo[s]e he had been Tabled at thy Teates,
Thy hunger feeles not what he eates ;
Hee’l have his Teat e’re long ( a bloody one )
The Mother then mu[s]t [s]uck the Son.

Completely, flabergastingly disgusting.

Here are our books later than night before the reading looking rather… sex-eh:



Rather smiley audience (Michael is in the front there):



[Oh God, New Yorker… Oh God… I am going to run down and go to the bathroom and… barf or something…]

OK, now I am just waiting, twiddling my thumbs…

OK…

OK…

Ugh… 12:02….

HELLO! NEW YORKER! DO YOU KNOW IT IS 12:10AM! HELLO!?

[This is, of course, hideous: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/stevecoll/2008/11/decoding-mumbai.html]

OK, I'm just going to go to sleep now...

Phew!: http://www.newyorker.com/talk/2008/12/08/081208ta_talk_rothbaum

Chicago

November 16: Reading with Brandi Homan at Myopic Books, 1564 N. Milwaukee Ave, Chicago, IL.

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After brunch with Noah and Chuck, I hopped in my car and drove to Chicago, where I’d found a $70 room on Orbitz at the Tremont on Magnificent Mile. This was great—a cozy and comforting sort of place—and I got up to my room and just lay there exhausted for two hours before my reading at Myopic Books… by this point in the trip, I was so tired, and the fact I had stayed up drinking until one or two in the morning and playing Galaga and Ms Pac Man with a bunch of dudes (and completely kicking their asses!) did not help matters.

But I put on my game face (ie a little bronzer, base, eyeliner, mascara, etc…) and cabbed it over to Myopic, which is a really phenomenal bookstore… Look at all these books!:



A guy named Larry Sawyer was my host for the evening. He was great. Here he is at the restaurant we went to after the reading:



Here is my co-reader, Brandi. Her poems were sad and sweet and very sincere. Lovely:



A great audience member who was extremely interested in poetry (we took pict with ID because he came to get extra credit for a class at Indiana University, but also wanted to make it clear he was already getting an A---aw):



Brandi, Larry, and some others:



After dinner, Larry and I went to his place and watched some TV (I haven’t watched TV for probably a month now)—the Wizard of Oz, to be precise, which is pretty interesting vis-à-vis my book, when you consider that story was actually written by Frank Baum potentially in part about the gold standard. Check out some interesting interpretations of the book here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_interpretations_of_The_Wonderful_Wizard_of_Oz)

Milwaukee

November 15: Teaching a workshop and reading with Noah Eli Gordon at Woodland Pattern Book Center, 720 East Locust Street, Milwaukee, WI.

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How can I possibly describe to you how wonderful Woodland Pattern is? I had heard from many quarters it was like no other poetry organization, and two of the readings (in Lawrence, KS and Appleton, WI) were organized by people with long associations with Woodland Pattern who rely on the place to bring a certain sort of interesting poet to the Midwest, but it wasn’t quite possible for me to imagine the place until I got there (at which point it’s no longer imagining, of course). The outside has a lovely post-Didion 70s vibe:



Look at this great political mural on the building’s façade. Reminded me of the Y back in Concord, NH where I grew up—or the great place my mom used to take me to do pottery and drawing:



I guess the whole place brought me back—not only to my own semi-hippie childhood, but also to the semi-hippie experimental poetics of the 70s. Whereas a lot of the poetry I deal in (in Brooklyn, at Fence, in my own life) and write might be called “indie”—be aligned with bands like Radiohead or Deathcab and some of the newer experimentally figurative artists like Paul Paddock, much of the poetry and “vibe” at Woodland Pattern would be aligned with Dylan and the Abstract Expressionists… On the shelves, you could see LANGUAGE and New York School and Beat poetries perfectly happily giving way to New Lyric, New Narrative (I’m going to start a school called “Old Lyric and Narrative Fuck You”), Elliptical, fourth and fifth generation New York School, and other newer work by emerging writers. In other words, the place, while certainly a sort of bastion of experimental and avant-guardist writings, was also wonderfully open-seeming—open-minded, open-vibed. I could have hung out there all day… browsing, hanging out with the immensely enthusiastic and kind staff… Chuck Stebelton, who had invited me, was one of the best hosts on the trip so far, taking me and my co-reader, Noah Eli Gordon, out to a great place called the Comet Café for dinner, drinking with us late into the night at a fantastic Milwaukee bar, then reconvening with us in the morning for a tremendous brunch, where we talked for hours about pretty much every poet (experimental or no) under the sun. It didn’t hurt that Noah, like Chuck, has read every book by every poet, like, ever written.

Here we are (including Faith—from the Appleton episode of this blog) at the Comet before the reading:



Chuck introducing (the art in the background is by Jane Dalrymple Hollo, who had recently been there with Anselm):



John Koethe, who introduced Noah:



Noah:



More art:



Faith, who introduced me:



Anne, who is one of the owners of Woodland Pattern. A very special person, so sweet and so community-minded. Lovely:



Two women who were in the lyric memoir workshop I had run earlier in the day—the one on the right also works in the store. She was so helpful—really positive and great to be around:



Comet in the morning, too; great brunch there, if you’re ever in Milwaukee (Williamsburg: eat your heart out):



I wish there were more places like Woodland Pattern on this earth. I mean, it would be great if there were a place like that in New York somewhere (there used to be a place sort of like Woodland in the Bay Area back in the 90s—the SPD storefront—but that closed). There is nothing like browsing through books for hours in a real store with real people who care and can tell you what’s happening.

Ann Arbor

November 13: Reading at Shaman Drum Bookshop. 311-315 South State Street, Ann Arbor, MI.

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I spent the entire morning the next day sleeping. At this point on the trip, I am truly exhausted—body aching all over, chest caved so that it’s hard to breathe, and facial skin pale (thank God for bronzer by Dr. Hauschka’s). When I parked next to the University of Michigan to go to my reading at Shaman Drum, however, I felt ecstatic. I love universities, and the mood around the University there was really lovely—bells were tolling, busy students were walking hurriedly around. I was a little late for the reading, so half-ran to the bookstore, where, as usual even ten minutes before a reading starts, the chairs were empty. I thought to myself, This is it, this is going to be the one where only one person shows up. Happily, however, the seats filled up plus or minus (with Ray McDaniel’s students, I am sure) by the time I gave the reading. Ray gave me an absolutely terrific and thorough introduction (the best on the trip so far—no text from the web following me around like a misguided puppy). His intros are legendary in poetry circles (and his reviews for The Constant Critic are brilliantly insightful and precise). One of the things I have been thinking about a lot on this trip is the concept of “reception”—of being “received” in a new city. Ray’s introduction moved me—it was wonderful.

After I read, Ray and I chatted with the MFA students who had shown up about community. It has struck me during this trip how much of my community I developed by going to readings and generally being involved in poetry on a social level back in my early twenties. Probably about a third of my hosts on this trip I met at readings; another third I met in the context of school (teachers, peers); and probably a third I didn’t know before.

Here is a journalist I met before the reading; she writes about careers for the Washington Post. We had an interesting conversation about the current financial crisis:



Here is Ray introducing:



Three MFA students:

Ypsilanti

The drive from Appleton to Ypsilanti was long, wet, and boring. Six hours on I-94E to teach a one-hour class on the memoir for Christine. I was thinking I’d stop off in Ann Arbor, get a hotel—thought I had an hour to kill—but just wanted to get the drive over with, and figured the hotels in Ypsilanti would be cheaper, so kept going. After arriving in the parking lot, I picked up my iPhone, which said it was 6:30. The clock in the car said 5:30. I called Christine. Is it 5:30 or 6:30? I asked. I had apparently changed time zones without realizing it, which meant I had to book it up the hill to the class in less than a minute if I wanted to be on time. So I booked it.

Christine took me up to the room, where I spoke hurriedly and flusteredly about lyric and memoir. Back in Appleton, I had been notably self-depricating about my memoir, calling it an apprentice work, something I wrote in my 20s etc. (of course it’s not atypical for writers to have issues with their earlier work—we all like to move on). Later, in Milwaukee (I’ll post on that later), Faith informed me that her students had been perplexed about this—why wouldn’t I be proud of a book that I wrote that actually made money? The irony of course is that this current book, The Heaven-Sent Leaf, is in many ways the answer to that question.

In the class, I spoke about writing the memoir. We talked about “the dirty” in poetry, how money might make the poems “dirty.” We talked about theme as a structuring device. It was interesting enough, though a blur as my body still felt for the first half-an-hour as if in motion, still driving.

As I mentioned in my last post, there was one very smart seeming student in the class—too smart seeming—and kind authoritative in bearing and mien. I found out after, at the bar, this “student” was Carla Harryman, one of my very favorite writers (at 19 or 20 years old, Lyn Hejinian gave me Animal Instincts… I took immediately to Carla’s work). (“Hi Carla,” Christine had said, and I’d stared long and hard at “the student.” “It’s Carla,” Carla said. I turned bright red.)

After the embarrassment had passed, we all had a nice time next to the (fake, but heat-producing) fire, drinking wine and talking about Marx. Carla had just re-read Capital, which I have on my counter in the kitchen at home but have not been able to get myself to re-read (I read all my Marx back at Berkeley—more than ten years ago now—I should really bone up). I am teaching a poetry workshop in the spring, so was thinking I might have an optional café reading group meeting once a week where the students can come and discuss Capital with me. This seems like a good enough prod for all involved. Carla insisted the book is worth reading as pure literature. She also said it was much more speculative and exploratory than she had anticipated (i.e. Marx was really trying to “figure it out” in the writing itself). This all intrigued me. I’m excited to dive in again and take another look.

Here is Christine in a kind of “arty” shot:



Carla:



The Bar:

Appleton

November 10: reading at Lawrence University in Science Hall 102, Appleton, Wisconsin.

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Driving up to Appleton (which is between Green Bay and Oshkosh), I was feeling pretty somber. I first met the woman who had invited me—Faith Barrett—at Berkeley when I was an undergraduate and she was a graduate student. The two of us had shared a campus prize for the creative arts with a third woman who died suddenly a few years back from a brain tumor.

Generally, of course, I’ve been thinking the entire trip about time passing and how people come and go from one’s life. So many old friends I have seen have been jarringly the same but different… things have happened in their lives, they have married and divorced, had children (or not), moved for reasons having to do with both love and hate, money or family, aged (inevitably), & etc.

When I met Faith in the foyer of the main building on campus where her office is, I reminded her of this—the prize, Ann having passed away. Faith hadn’t been aware Ann had passed, and didn’t remember the details of how she and I had met… But before she and I had a chance to process any of this, I had to go to a Q&A with some of the students and faculty of Lawrence University. This was a lively group. We discussed memoir, poetry, editing a magazine. I told them a lot of stories, felt acutely so much time had passed.

Faith and I then went out to dinner with a student and another faculty member. This was lovely—somber light to match the somber feeling. Following this, I gave my reading—both poems and an excerpt from the memoir. I hadn’t read from (or read at all) the memoir for at least three years, so it was interesting to reconnect… it’s a girl’s book… the work of someone in her twenties… It is hard for me to believe I even it wrote it... It was interesting as well to see how sweet and sanguine the prose was. When the memoir first came out, I was completely mortified, feeling it was over the top, too emotional, a mess. I guess, in the end, it was interesting to read it as the work of someone else—to not identify with it so completely anymore. That time had passed.

One interesting feature of the writer's life is overtaking in age writers that one has admired in one's life. Most female poets I know, for instance, really register it when they pass the age Sylvia Plath was when she commited suicide. I suppose this is a feature of everybody's life: taking account of the people that pass, wondering why you lived longer than they did, thinking about what you did with the time, & etc.

The next day, I spoke to Faith’s writing workshop and then went over some student poems. A nice group. After that, I hit the road for a six-hour drive in the rain down to Chicago. Exhausting. I’ll likely write more about Faith later, as she will be introducing me at Woodland Pattern (which is how she found out I was going to be in the area in the first place). Here is Faith:



Some students grabbing coffee and cake after the reading:



Faith again:



I was glad Faith seemed so well.

Madison

November 9: Reading with Kazim Ali and Matthew Guenette at Avols Books, 315 W. Gorham Street, Madison, WI.

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Things are starting to get pretty overwhelming. I gave a talk to Christine Hume’s lyric essay class last night (Novemeber 12, here in Ypsilanti, MI). Carla Harryman, who is one of my idols, was in the class, but I didn’t recognize her and assumed she was a (very smart!) student. I didn’t realize my mistake until later at the bar. Here is a picture of Carla looking a bit devilish; may it forever admonish me. (Then again, who can blame me for getting confused after having seen so many old friends and faces (and met so many new ones!)):



More on Carla et al later, first… catching up with Madison. At the end of the last episode, Kazim and I were careening down the interstate trying to make a 2PM reading at Avols Books. The good news is that we made it; the bad is that we felt pretty terrible. Here is Kazim feeling terrible:



Here he is doing a little yoga and trying to regroup:



It was kind of too bad we were both so tired for the Avols reading, because it was a really welcoming venue and a really great crowd. Here is Matthew Guenette, who was our third (local) reader:



Here is the Avols owner introducing:



Kazim reading:



Here is an old friend Jordan, who is both a math professor at Wisconsin and also a novelist. We had lunch with him after the reading:



*

The next morning, I stopped by Wisconsin public radio to discuss my book with To The Best of Our Knowledge. I am not sure the interview will air—this stuff is never for sure…. In the meantime, I am hopeful, though. Here are a couple more pictures:





During the interview I found myself saying the economy was truly collapsing, which I suppose it is... This week being the worst yet. I had hoped the election—the end of a period of uncertainty, at least in one area, about the future—would improve things...

Lincoln

Reading with Kazim Ali as part of The Clean Part Reading Series, Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery, 12th and R St., Lincoln, NE.

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Trying to write about Lincoln while in a hotel room in Chicago… it’s always a little off, this blogging… and a little uncomfortable… not my natural métier (I always want everything I write to be crafted and carved and carefully thought out)—if this blog seems a little banal, Dear Reader, know it is only due to considerations of My Self: after having written and published a memoir and two poetry books (not to mention having posted a lot of marketing copy and various iterations of a bio), I am acutely aware of how text follows you around like a needy and misguided puppy; probably a third of my readings, for instance, have been introduced with some copy or a bio that I wrote (found on the web)… for better or worse…

But that is neither here nor there because I am neither in Lincoln nor in Ypsilanti, where I am going to talk to Christine Hume’s class on lyric memoir later on; rather I am in Chicago at the Inn at Chicago on Magnificent mile. I got in late… I have gotten in late for days now… First to Lawrence after Iowa, and then, more insanely, Lincoln after Lawrence (and then, even more insanely, Madison after Lincoln). We left Lawrence at noon and didn’t get into Lincoln until 6PM. Anthony Hawley, who edited poetry for Fence, is living there now and was our host. I think he wanted us to hang out a lot more—had been looking forward to some visitors—but the moment we arrived, we had to start preparing to leave. We were in Lincoln only ten hours before we had to drive to Madison.

Here is Anthony:



His lovely wife and child (she is a member of a quartet that is in residence at the University of Nebraska; Anthony teaches poetry there):



We went to the museum for the reading; Anthony says he usually gets about fifty people for the series, but our crowd was probably more like twenty; this may have been because there was a big football game that day, or maybe because it was freezing, who knows; it was a lot of fun anyway. Here are two skulls at the entrance to the museum; they had some sort of funereal/Halloween/Cinco de Mayo thing going on there:





Here is Anthony introducing:



Kazim reading:



Me reading:



A bored looking Richard Greenfield (who was a dear):



In order to get to Madison in time for our 2PM reading on Sunday, Kazim and I had to leave Lincoln at 4AM. Here is the road right around dawn:



And later:



C’est tout re Lincoln… now to get ready for Bikram in Chicago; I haven’t made it to a class since November 2nd in Missoula, and all the driving has made me stiff and tired. I haven’t washed what I call "my poetry Halloween costume" (black shirt, dress, leggings) since Missoula either; I am hoping to wash everything in Ann Arbor... we shall see.



What I really want to do more than anything else is get back into bed.