The Author's Hangout Vending Machine

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And everyone puts on their Camus masks and begin the dance of the red death.

I put in a man who wakes up as a cockroach...

And the hearing-impaired wait staff bring you a plate of kofta.


I put in potted crocuses.
 
And the hearing-impaired wait staff bring you a plate of kofta.


I put in potted crocuses.

and you spend the afternoon with a notable poet.

Here's the link for the article quoted http://www.hcs.harvard.edu/~hbr/issues/7.3spring06/articles/kunitz.shtml

He sits in front of the window, cutting a small figure in a large chair, at such a distance from the door that we might well have entered the throne room of an aged king. And adding to the pomp of the occasion, we have come with potted flowers held in front of us like candles, crocuses and grape hyacinths, tokens of the spring that has taken root outside. But as we sit down beside the man and he examines our offerings, one at a time, the absurd ceremony of the scene disappears altogether. The veins in his hands are navy blue and fork decisively around his knuckles like rivers. The skin on his wrist is freckled and mottled and wrinkled in shallow ridges, as though rain had carved them out of a hillside. The introduction to his Collected Poems ends, "I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through it and see the world." We thought to bring nature to the artist, but we had only brought nature back to nature. He closes his eyes to smell the flowers, opens them slowly, nods his approval.

A few months shy of his hundred-and-first birthday, Stanley Kunitz sits at the head of the table of American letters, and not by the right of seniority alone...

Along with flowers we have brought questions, questions clumped in notebooks like pebbles in a pouch: Why do you say that being a poet in this age is itself a political action?


I put in Keb Mo blues song...
 
and you spend the afternoon with a notable poet.

Here's the link for the article quoted http://www.hcs.harvard.edu/~hbr/issues/7.3spring06/articles/kunitz.shtml

He sits in front of the window, cutting a small figure in a large chair, at such a distance from the door that we might well have entered the throne room of an aged king. And adding to the pomp of the occasion, we have come with potted flowers held in front of us like candles, crocuses and grape hyacinths, tokens of the spring that has taken root outside. But as we sit down beside the man and he examines our offerings, one at a time, the absurd ceremony of the scene disappears altogether. The veins in his hands are navy blue and fork decisively around his knuckles like rivers. The skin on his wrist is freckled and mottled and wrinkled in shallow ridges, as though rain had carved them out of a hillside. The introduction to his Collected Poems ends, "I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through it and see the world." We thought to bring nature to the artist, but we had only brought nature back to nature. He closes his eyes to smell the flowers, opens them slowly, nods his approval.

A few months shy of his hundred-and-first birthday, Stanley Kunitz sits at the head of the table of American letters, and not by the right of seniority alone...

Along with flowers we have brought questions, questions clumped in notebooks like pebbles in a pouch: Why do you say that being a poet in this age is itself a political action?


I put in Keb Mo blues song...

and being sad never felt so good.

I put in a cryptic Kemo Sabe...
 
And you wonder who was that masked man, or maybe it was just a bad day to be indigenous?

I put in Chocolate Genius's cover of "Ain't That Peculiar"...

. . . and you get a peculiar look from the host of "Sweet Genius"

I put in a bottle of warm German beer . . . .
 
and you discover it was only because it was practice; the really thing really does hurt.

I put a bottle of Lagavulin to ease the discomfort...

But the Emos like the pain and dump the bottle into the pisser.

I put in a cylinder of nitrous oxide.
 
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