[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Wotsit

Sunday afternoon in an dark bar way downtown, between Wall Street
and King Street, a gray deserted bar with poets in the back room,
and the bar's name had "lion" in it though  it should have had dust
or error in it, next to a closed strip club, and two consecutive
poets, each wearing stocking caps, each reading their poems from
marbleized composition notebooks, here five minutes already and it
seems like group therapy in hell, and I can no longer wait for a
pause but stand and go out into the fresh urban Sunday air, blue
skies, unchain my bicycle, ride toward the Hudson bike path, unaware
of the Twin Towers because they're too tall and too near, and the
path is alive with rollerbladers and bikers and strollers, and I
don't stop riding for a hundred blocks.


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