Friday

Sometimes there's a little too much careful talking, at conferences. Last night, following Margot Livesey's reading, there was a lot of un-careful talking. There was debating with Jason Ockert about what should be inscribed on my next flask (current contenders: "Pluperfect" or "My Last Duchess"); rocking on the porch of the French House with Eric McHenry, as he finished his gin & tonic, chatting about some of the more wonderfully crazy poets we know; more rocking on the porch of Humphreys, sharing my Dalmore scotch and talking about the two Coreys; then a quick roundabout of the graveyard, though Don Waters was the only one dedicated enough to, using his lighter, actually check out inscriptions.

My flask is empty. My feet are bug-bitten. My throat is hoarse.
All as it should be.