First a couple of photos of the audience:
Zinovy Vayman filled up his 5 minutes with haikus…
It’s me! It’s me!Knowing it’s him, she hangs up.My life has a superb castbut I just can’t figure out the plot.The autumn mosquitoReady for deathStings me.
I read part of Ginsberg’s Kaddish about the death of his crazy mother. John Citizen, over here on loan from Tall Lighthouse in London, knows the gloves are off in Glasgow. Undaunted, he read from the Library of Love. Check him out & listen to the poem here.
Caesar performed Talk Jamaican For Us and exhorts you to try to erase these lines, render yourselves untouchable and unique…
Sally had a double word score; they should’ve known. Hapi was salt and water. Troy found a groove along the wink of time, barely breathing back the universe. Bruce’s flight was cancelled; he was going nowhere, his ticket all burned up. Time for a taking of babies’ breath. Michélé had a blue light cat & the ghost of Allen Ginsberg. Alberto’s dick was digging his heart’s grave.
Kelly’s act was criminal. Chris and Ben were Person A and Person B, discussing the difficulties of having no theme. Then the chickens came home to Proust.
Ed argued that for water to have direction it needs a frame; are poets any different? Wet, in a puddle, going nowhere… Yet concluded that I can’t take away the frames just by not announcing a theme.
For Beth, Jesus is just a fat guy who never takes the helm. Amy married a monster from outer space. And Robert, poet laureate of outer space, spotted Bigfoot in Paris.