Greetings all. A few words about the workshop. For whatever good the workshop may provide in evaluating students’ work, last night saw the emergence of a serious flaw in the process. One of the students, a woman named K., submitted a series of six poems based upon the Baba Yaga myths. It was an admirable goal to be sure, especially in an academic setting. The poem cycle was dull and the writing banal. The rest of the class didn’t see this at all. As far as fantasy poetry goes, her stuff was not that good. She used adjectives far too frequently and her retelling didn’t add to my understanding of the Baba Yaga myths. Some in the class even praised her for overuse of adjectives. If this woman had submitted such work to Clarion, it would have shot down as mundane, yet this workshop couldn’t see it. While I’ve always been dubious of academic workshop’s ability to recognize talent, this only solidified my beliefs. Their analysis focused on the form of the poems, yet the content was what killed the poem. How the banal slips past us!

I went to a poetry slam last night at a bar called "Dirty Frank’s." Had a good time, but I didn’t even place. My readings were clipped and hobbled by lack of practice. On the bright side, my good friend Shelley won the competition and took home a free T-shirt and got a free beer. Yeah for Shelley! The best thing about this slam was that it took place in a bar and the patrons were loud and rowdy, the bartender-ess was friendly and quick with the drinks and the soundsystem was above average. After the slam, I talked with a guy named Frank who runs an invitation-only poetry reading at a lounge called the "La Taza." Academics and art snobs attend and read at those gatherings. Frank and I talked about avant garde and how to express sex and violent imagery, but I was so friggin drunk when we spoke that I hope I didn’t make a baboon of myself. Frank was drunk too, so maybe he didn’t notice how sloshed I was. On principle, I’m not too concerned with reading at La Taza since their crowds tend be people who may not appreciate my blend of beer and bug-fucking poetry, but it would be nice to say I did it. Chip Delany read there and I would enjoy the sense of continuity if I, for once, got to speak at the same microphone that he used. Of course, other numbskulls have read there too, but let’s not dwell on those, OK?