Spend the day with...

[Tzara]

So. Imagine it. You have the chance to spend a day with one of your favorite Lit poets. What do you do? Do you

• Sit in a coffeeshop in Maine with Angeline, while she bluelines what you thought were your best lines? She's very nice and apologetic about it, even hums some Billie Holliday tunes as she eviscerates your work. The coffee is good. Some thin guy she keeps winking and smooching at is playing guitar in the background. Or do you...

• Find yourself sitting right next to the Pesky Pole at Fenway. Tathagata is mumbling something unintelligible about David Ortiz and how he's gonna crank one while you try to get the chowdah Tath told you not to buy up to your mouth without spilling it all over the people near you. The beer is good anyway. Or, perhaps you...

• Find yourself comfortably seated in Rotterdam, having twisted up a healthy doob with (after two or three puffs) your lifelong friend and fellow poet bogusbrig. You discuss... you discuss... uh, something. It is important, though.

We shall not talk about my fantasized meeting with Eve, other than to say it is an intellectual conversation about African fetishist art.

OK. Poetry challenge, or even just narrative challenge. You meet up with another Lit poet and hang.

What happens?

 

[normal jean]

Let's just say Flyguy better watch out, lol. oh, and you too

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

This feels like sitting in front of a BIG box of chocolates with no menu and trying to choose.

 

[RhymeFairy]

This feels like sitting in front of a BIG box of chocolates with no menu and trying to choose.

.... licking lips and squinching eyes. Think I see it now, lookie there, in the small print .....

 

[eagleyez]

This guy puts his guitar down, slurps on his cappucino and gazes thru the door. The place is dark, but not too dark to make out various forms as they amble in. He sits with a woman who keeps her nose buried in a book, her long black mane covering her eyes, and when the light catches her just right he sees sparkles of silver dispersed throughout her thick dark mop.

In walks a large man, his reddish hair pulled back to reveal a goatee which frames his mouth. When he speaks one cannot fail to recognize his Bahstan accent. He orders a pint of Ale, slaps a gentle five with the guitar man and gestures nonverbally that he would like to pluck out some chord progression. "Be my guest," the scrawny man says as he wipes steamed milk foam from his upper lip. Bahstan begins to play a super slow rendition of "redemption song." The crowd, as if on cue, begins to yawp and stamp on tables, as Lowell and Varitek hit back to back jacks, tying the score against the boys from the Dark Side, otherwise known hereabouts as the NY Yankees. He sings softly, belying his imposing size and revealing a gentle spirit. He plays the song without looking at the neck, instead rotating his head back and forth, watching the movement in the room with a boyish inquisitiveness. He plays effortlessy and rythmically.

Next into the room enter two women, one tall and rather lean, and the other shorter yet well proportioned. The smaller of the two recognizes the inhabitants of the table and sits next to the studious reader. They whisper for a moment and proceed to let fly a simutaneous cackle. It becomes apparent that the more diminutive one has a tinge of a drawl when she speaks, and she turns her seat around and sits with her arms draped over the chair back, her hair flounced over the corner of her eyes. She proceeds to enter into a staccato conversation with the reader, who has since shut her book. They point at the two men seated along side of them and vaguely nod and smile, chuckling under their breath with a glee that reveals the closeness of the two.

The tall woman sits between the two men and folds her arms and crosses her legs, as she looks them both over and nods affirmatively, as if to express her lack of surprise at the boyish demeanor of these two. Suddenly, she flags the barmaid and with the surprise of surprises, orders a glass of house wine in a regal, high pitched voice dripping with a britishness that floors the others at the table. All eyes turn towards her, and instead of reacting shyly, she orders the big man to keep playing and leans in to grap a half eaten piece of black bread. She motions toward the guitar and remarks matter of factly "he knows his song well before he starts singing."

The scawny one finishes his cup of mud and motions to the barkeep, asking "can we get a couple of Bushmills Black here, on the rocks mate." Red keeps playing, improvising thru some chord forms all the while never looking at the neck.

The tall girl leans toward little miss southie and holds her hand on her shoulder, saying "Evie, shall we dance?" The two of them stand slowly and as if to mimic a proper beginning, they knock back their drinks and jiggle the ice before proceeding to break into a Tennesee waltz, laughing uproariously. "Step on my foot, go ahead do it." The not so proper brit acknowleges and squashes her foot and turns it as if to mimic stamping out a cigarette. With her dainty regal voice, the tall one laughs and says "here I thought you were going to beg me to order a sub sandwich," barely able to finish the sentence as she laughed irreverently. Evie replied, now almost in tears, "you seem to have mastered it quite well missie."

Red began in on the chords to "walk on the wild side," as the crowd payed them no mind. The dark haired girl spoke up, something about Smithpeter and his willing minions, which had them all in stiches, and one by one and two by two, others ambled over to join them, joyful surprise smattered upon their faces. By nights end the bar was empty, save for 30 to 40 more, all in different shapes and sizes, with varying accents and bodytypes, lost in the chance of it, glady lost.

 

[WickedEve]

Questions.
Who is the tall, British chick?
And what about this Southern Evie? She seems... smallish.

 

[Angeline]

Questions.
Who is the tall, British chick?
And what about this Southern Evie? She seems... smallish.

He thinks you're petite. In his mind's eye, you're petite. And you can't guess the British chick? I bet she could come in there and tell you herself!

 

[WickedEve]

He thinks you're petite. In his mind's eye, you're petite. And you can't guess the British chick? I bet she could come in there and tell you herself!

I am a petite 5'10

 

[WickedEve]

And you can't guess the British chick? I bet she could come in there and tell you herself!

Lauren?

 

[Angeline]

Lauren?

Tess

 

[Angeline]

I am a petite 5'10

I know. I told him after he posted it--Evie's tall. I'll go over it with him again: Eve, tall; NJ, not tall; Angeline, wait he knows that one. . .

 

[WickedEve]

Tess

Well, I thought maybe it was her.
She's tall?
And why did ee have her stepping on my foot?

 

[Angeline]

Well, I thought maybe it was her.
She's tall?
And why did ee have her stepping on my foot?

Quoting ee:

"Because she was being a pseudo dom" (get it? sub sandwhich?)

He then said "it was a feeble attempt at levity."

Yes. I know he's strange, but really he's very sweet.

PS Is Tess tall? I dunno. Tess, are you tall?

 

[WickedEve]

Quoting ee:

"Because she was being a pseudo dom" (get it? sub sandwhich?)

He then said "it was a feeble attempt at levity."

Yes. I know he's strange, but really he's very sweet.

Yeah, yeah, I got the sub thing, but the foot thing was just rude, especially if we're dancing, and why are two girls dancing together? Huh? Is this a lesbian thing? Is this foreplay for you two? OMG, it is, isn't it?!

 

[Angeline]

Yeah, yeah, I got the sub thing, but the foot thing was just rude, especially if we're dancing, and why are two girls dancing together? Huh? Is this a lesbian thing? Is this foreplay for you two? OMG, it is, isn't it?!

You ought to know me well enough by now to realize that the lesbian fantasy isn't mine. Anyway, we don't need foreplay. We have ice cream.

 

[WickedEve]

You ought to know me well enough by now to realize that the lesbian fantasy isn't mine. Anyway, we don't need foreplay. We have ice cream.

If you have ice cream, you don't need sex.

 

[Angeline]

If you have ice cream, you don't need sex.

We think so alike it's frightening.

 

[champagne1982]

I can't say as I can pick a favourite. I think you'd all be wildly entertaining.
So, no comment.
Can I come and step on evie's toes, too? It sounds like a standing game of twister where we all wanna put our appendages on the same colour.

 

[champagne1982]

p.s. .. I'm going to eat a Dilly Bar now. Don't try to stop me. It's too late for this one... yummmmmmmmm

 

[WickedEve]

I can't say as I can pick a favourite. I think you'd all be wildly entertaining.
So, no comment.
Can I come and step on evie's toes, too? It sounds like a standing game of twister where we all wanna put our appendages on the same colour.

You just want to hurt me because I'm petite.

 

[Tzara]

..........................Tell me about

the Poisson distribution, I asked.
He began to talk in the flat, exact voice
of a dictionary—hands fluttering

as he wrote out symbols on a chalkboard
in his mind. I was lost after
Consider... which was his first word,

so when he paused I said Or maybe
a poem. After a moment, he cleared
his throat and recited a short one, by
Li Po, I think, and then was silent.

I looked out at the robin's egg blue
of the apartment's swimming pool, where
madrona leaves floated on the water.
And while I did not understand the poem,

I knew then why geometry.​

 

[The_Fool]

..........................Tell me about

the Poisson distribution, I asked.
He began to talk in the flat, exact voice
of a dictionary—hands fluttering

as he wrote out symbols on a chalkboard
in his mind. I was lost after
Consider... which was his first word,

so when he paused I said Or maybe
a poem. After a moment, he cleared
his throat and recited a short one, by
Li Po, I think, and then was silent.

I looked out at the robin's egg blue
of the apartment's swimming pool, where
madrona leaves floated on the water.
And while I did not understand the poem,

I knew then why geometry.​

nowwaitafugginminute....no mixin' the poeticals with the logisticals...

 

[normal jean]

i think i missed the point of the challenge...

 

[MyNecroticSnail]

So. Imagine it. You have the chance to spend a day with one of your favorite Lit poets. What do you do? Do you

• Sit in a coffeeshop in Maine with Angeline, while she bluelines what you thought were your best lines? She's very nice and apologetic about it, even hums some Billie Holliday tunes as she eviscerates your work. The coffee is good. Some thin guy she keeps winking and smooching at is playing guitar in the background. Or do you...

• Find yourself sitting right next to the Pesky Pole at Fenway. Tathagata is mumbling something unintelligible about David Ortiz and how he's gonna crank one while you try to get the chowdah Tath told you not to buy up to your mouth without spilling it all over the people near you. The beer is good anyway. Or, perhaps you...

• Find yourself comfortably seated in Rotterdam, having twisted up a healthy doob with (after two or three puffs) your lifelong friend and fellow poet bogusbrig. You discuss... you discuss... uh, something. It is important, though.

We shall not talk about my fantasized meeting with Eve, other than to say it is an intellectual conversation about African fetishist art.

OK. Poetry challenge, or even just narrative challenge. You meet up with another Lit poet and hang.

What happens?

Sounds fucking deadly.

Now,


Who wants to go duck hunting with me and Dick Cheney?

 

[normal jean]

Sounds fucking deadly.

Now,


Who wants to go duck hunting with me and Dick Cheney?

Let's see, I would go to watch, if you would take the Bushman and give him and Cheney EACH two guns and turn them loose on each other



now that would be F-U-N-N-Y