Writers Conference

Drinks with Buk, and

I'm half in the bag

when Miller Williams

shows up, he is from Hoxie

not far from where

I grew up and

I love his voice,

sort of half chant -half chat.

The bird blows his horn

for us and sometimes it's

Monk on piano,

but they are subtle.

Not like Buk,

he grabs me by

the cajones,

jars me into thought.

You've got to come

at 'em from

where you are

Got to be real with 'em.

I set aside his words

and stir the cubes

in my glass with my

finger, taste its wetness.

Crossing to the kitchenette,

the other side of the room,

I bump into Billy Collins

a new friend to me

but great for a laugh.

Digression is the key,

reasonably good grammar,

and a smooth digression.

Then, in that great way

he has, he makes me

smile like we have

a shared secret.

Monk attacks the keys,

like a meth laden

ninja with a fist full of

chinese throwing stars.

He doesn't say much

but now I am thinking

about cool broken rhythms

and improv technique.

Hungry.

Maybe some scrambled eggs

and whiskey.

crazy deb needs a new pair of shoes

crazy deb was
a prom queen
gone bad
and she stood
 and cried
and prayed
one day like
she had
learned in vacation
bible school
all that time
ago over
tuna sandwiches
 and red
kool aid
jesus what
she wouldnt do
for a hit of dope
but god didnt care
or the
tricks were scared
so she went
back to the
little room
where she stayed
and stared
on better days
at the
soiled curtains
and black greasy hand
stains
around the
doorknob door
and shadows
in the corners
and the pulls
on the drawers
unblinking
thinking of the
tattered carpet floor
and her scuffed soled
shoes by the bathroom
were tired and ready
to sleep
and they were
sick of getting high
and beating
down the street
or flying
near her ears
on her toe curled feet
so
they kicked back and settled
down
while the crazy prom queen
came unwound