1/26/2013 during Snoetry 3 and a Half at Poets’ Hall [photo by Peggy Honeydew]

Friday night was a big open mic followed by featured poet Chell LeVie. Hot stuff. Dianne Borsenik and I had the honor of starting – and since MC Cee Williams requested we do a piece together (and we’d planned no such piece), I took one of my poems (“Electric Miasma” from Electric Company) and Dianne took one of hers (“Import” from Fortune Cookie) and we traded lines back and forth creating an impromptu dialogue that worked as its own new poem.

We got back to Cleveland after midnight and had to leave again at 8 a.m. Saturday to return to Erie for day two.  I only slept three hours.

Saturday brought 12 more hours of hot stuff.  I got to read the first poem again and chose “Lens” (from The Eater of the Absurd).  Later in the day, I had another opportunity to read and shared three poems (“Clothes N Time,” “Trans Mission” and “Pa Tricked”) from Barry Merry Baloney, followed by a new poem I’d written that restless night before.  I called the new poem “Tomorrow I’ll Know If It’s Done.”  But surely I can come up with a better or more fitting title than that.  Here’s the poem:

1/26/2013 — 1:41 a.m.

Here’s the poem
I could not write.
Here’s the night
I could not sleep.
Here too’s the night
you could not keep faith.
Here’s the wraith
jealousy taunting me.
Here’s the wanting
I cannot fulfill.
Here’s the hill
I cannot climb.
Here’s the time
I mime my heart and flail.
Here’s the failure
I’ve become.
Here’s the numb
Here’s the danger.
Here’s the manger
where Jesus lies
a baby again.
Here’s the sin
he will not grow
old again to die for.
Here’s the why for
an eye for an eyesore
and a whore for more.
Here’s the chore
I’ve become.
Here’s the sum
of my unquiet
Here’s my need
for infinitely recurring validation.
Here’s my long drawn out dissipation.
Here’s my scattershot elation
smashed to feathers like a bird
on an Erie hotel window.
Here’s the din roaring.
Here’s the warring
I’m afraid to win
or engage in.
Here again
I simply could
not say no
except to what
I love most.
Here I’m toast
and the poem I could not
write is finished.
We are not.

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