Letter To An Old Poet

Dear Old Poet,

Only 15 poets can read tonight, four minutes each. You know that. So what do you do? You shuffle up to the front of the room, with a bag of something, manuscript? Props? I don't know. But you start in, a tirade of some sort about a guy named David Lerner. You stand there, bow-legged and hunched, spewing and swearing and going on and on about all manner of things no one in the audience can make any sense of. The MC politely asks you to wrap it up after about , oh, I don't know, about ten minutes of your ranting.

So you keep talking. You're not reading anything, or reciting. You dropped your bag about five minutes ago, so why are you still up there? I start clapping, hoping others will join in and you'll get the point, that you're done. So very done. You call me a bitch, and I clap and yell louder, and finally, FINALLY-- you leave.

Look you crazy old bat, if you're not even going to read bad poetry, don't sign up. If all you're going to do is have an unmedicated or an overmedicated psychotic episode, please do it downtown with the other bag ladies instead of taking precious time away from people who at least think they're reading poetry.

Get off the fucking stage.

Pissed the fuck off,

Cindy