Poetry is dead. Long live poetry.

The conflation of times in the lobby of the Hyatt.

Long black coats and xmas dirges. Like a Victorian specialist.

Tragic adjunct time; hierarchical tenured time; trackless days of the unaffiliated.

The sub-basement of book displays lit by the blinding ties of P. Durgin.

Search for book stands in wilds of Michigan Ave. N. Alger comes through with secret knowledge of chicago & a way with shop girls.

Crossing the river in the snow wearing only one of my coats.

S. Cope still retains the looks that made him famous in San Diego. Now has inestimable Oppen prose book.

B. Watten driving through the snow with sets of all 5 extant Grand Pianos.

J. Scappetone asserting she owns no black pumps.

Mysterious White Castle burgers in the café freezer – were there microwaves somewhere?

M. Davidson glimpsed from across the marble staircase sitting with B. Perelman. Later we exchange books.

B. Archambeau appears to be both in front of and behind me at one point.

Startled by Wm Fuller in person.

Heard Brian Kim Stephens was there but saw him not.

Dodie’s exquisite barf piece in the autobio panel.

Down to earthiness of K. Fliesher.

Being aware of the people who are missing. Really missing them.

Amazing black silk thing worn by Catherine Taylor.

R. Gladman dressed to the nines.

Aging friends. Even the children are older.

But why does A. Nielson still look the same?

Tim Yu's New Prairie School. His incredible suit.

J. Amato going up as I go down.

The grand ballroom of infinite readings.

S. Schultz looking always cold in borrowed clothes.

T. Bryant encyclopedic sweater queen.

Hugging sick poets. That was my downfall.

Reemerging at home after several feverish days to find overproduced facsimile of Burroughs journal on my table

Everything Lost

Kevin Killian’s piece -- what was it called -- KO Sex? Take 4 ambien, do what you will & call me in the morning.

See you next year in San Francisco, goddess willing!