I got invited this year's Hollywood Round
table of poets. You know how they decide
who gets to be on these annual artistic
showcases? So I was so excited. I quickly
glanced over the list of the other poets
who were going to be at the roundtable.
There was ____________, the Pulitzer
Prize winner I pretend to the few friends
I do actually have is my actual friend.
There were two of my true poetic heroes,
_____________ and _____________,
also a gay poet, which made me happy
to not be that token, but also made me
feel a bit competitive. Oh, and there is
my former mentor, ___________, who
I basically owe my whole career, and
with whom I had a serious falling out
over a decade ago and we have not
spoken since. I wonder if I should
put in a call beforehand just to clear
the air. Or maybe the people who put
us together wanted some intentional
tension. But the host is __________,
and you know how much of a weak
interviewer they are. I mean, they
should at least get another poet to
moderate, but that’s never how these
things go, is it. Perhaps a one-on-one
poets on poets thing would have been
a better idea for me. Oh, but there’s
also _________ on the panel, who is
way out on the fringe, a place I always
feel I own, but then don’t we all? I’ll
have to work extra hard not to feel
competitive with how far toward or
outside of the margins my work, my
readers exist. These fantastical thoughts
bloomed like explosions within my head
for the months leading up to the round
table, but the coolest thing happened
once the day arrived. We all posed so
eloquently and each of us knew with
utter confidence that we were making
just the right responses to each question,
pushing the absolute best advice about
whatever our intent, with such keen
focus on the mix of unexpected, super-
accidental readers or fans, the ones
with whom if we were to have a real
conversation there would literally be
a negative vibe, aongside those with
whom you’ve worked your entire life
honing a relationship so that you have
those few or at least someone who
just gets you. I hear the ratings were
not so good and that they’re thinking
of eliminating the poetry category
for next year’s roundtables, in which
case, sad as that would be, what a
thing to get to be on the last one ever.
who gets to be on these annual artistic
showcases? So I was so excited. I quickly
glanced over the list of the other poets
who were going to be at the roundtable.
There was ____________, the Pulitzer
Prize winner I pretend to the few friends
I do actually have is my actual friend.
There were two of my true poetic heroes,
_____________ and _____________,
also a gay poet, which made me happy
to not be that token, but also made me
feel a bit competitive. Oh, and there is
my former mentor, ___________, who
I basically owe my whole career, and
with whom I had a serious falling out
over a decade ago and we have not
spoken since. I wonder if I should
put in a call beforehand just to clear
the air. Or maybe the people who put
us together wanted some intentional
tension. But the host is __________,
and you know how much of a weak
interviewer they are. I mean, they
should at least get another poet to
moderate, but that’s never how these
things go, is it. Perhaps a one-on-one
poets on poets thing would have been
a better idea for me. Oh, but there’s
also _________ on the panel, who is
way out on the fringe, a place I always
feel I own, but then don’t we all? I’ll
have to work extra hard not to feel
competitive with how far toward or
outside of the margins my work, my
readers exist. These fantastical thoughts
bloomed like explosions within my head
for the months leading up to the round
table, but the coolest thing happened
once the day arrived. We all posed so
eloquently and each of us knew with
utter confidence that we were making
just the right responses to each question,
pushing the absolute best advice about
whatever our intent, with such keen
focus on the mix of unexpected, super-
accidental readers or fans, the ones
with whom if we were to have a real
conversation there would literally be
a negative vibe, aongside those with
whom you’ve worked your entire life
honing a relationship so that you have
those few or at least someone who
just gets you. I hear the ratings were
not so good and that they’re thinking
of eliminating the poetry category
for next year’s roundtables, in which
case, sad as that would be, what a
thing to get to be on the last one ever.
