After the glad hands, and “we ought to do this again sometime” a 2 hour drive in the night brings out the true feelings of a curmudgeon.
fragments from beyond initial euporia (sic.)
Workshops were like mental play among children full of Mr. Roger’s feelgood-ism.
The conclusion to the day was a literary acquiescence to mass psychology judged by what gets left out to make it a success.
A poetry slam is like a Jerry Springer show with rhyme envy performed in front of a crowd drinking gourmet coffee sweetened with sugar coated cynicism–throw in some hubris for leavening and this thing was so light it could be disguised as stratus.
To put it in the local vernacular, it was a “cluster fuck among consenting adults”
What can I say? It was like, better than basket ball.
Again, thanks to the organizers and participants. Don't take the comments personal because I probably mean them and that is the my job.
There will more thoughtful and reflective critique later but right now I need a bike ride.
Remember the rules the question is (_____) is not the answer, but the answer is always Ride a Bicycle.