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Symposium on poetry

In the end, I don't know what the point is. It seems to be the tail wagging the horse, the critics knowing better than the poets what we're up to. Or who knows, maybe they do. Why do they remember the ridiculous tossed-off wisecracks of our youth? The readings were great, Patricia Spears Jones read especially beautifully, especially when the mic cooperated in that echo-y cavern. I liked everyone I could hear ~ can't ask for better than that. I think from now on, however, they can wait till I'm dead. 


However, massive gratitude to the young couple who very patiently explained that I was far, far from where I was going when I somehow got off the train many, many stops away from Sunset Park. I know they thought I didn't believe them & wasn't going to follow their directions, but I did, & they were more accurate than the MTA's trip-planner, which steered me wrong over & over. I am never going to Brooklyn again.

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