There once was a man from Nantucket

So I went to my first poetry reading last night. Well, my first one since I was a reluctant preteen being dragged along with my mom and her artsy boyfriend Doug to the New London book and lute store for what I considered to be a grotesque evening sitting around listening to old ugly people talking about rabid mournful sex and the death of the soul. Turns out, poetry reading hasn't changed too much, except now the old ugly people teach my Wednesday Critical Methods class and I now have the pleasure of putting faces to those images of rabid mournful sex. The thing about being an outsider at a poetry reading is that obviously everyone there knows one another and when they look at you and smile, it's a mistake and they quickly realize that you are not the person they thought. Secondly, they always laugh at what I consider hugely inappropriate times. "My mother's lungs fill with darkening clouds and I hate her perfume and poppy stockings." This is apparently comic genius, only I'm the stupid one in the room who doesn't get it. Overall, I'm glad it wasn't longer. Now I have to write a paper about my response to the reading and I only hope that I can get away with a two-pager on how I don't fucking get it.

Sad is the beetle on the rapid flight of angry frequency.
And yet.