My Other Whitman Is a McGowan
I spent St. Patrick’s evening at a poetry reading. The last time I’d been to one I was still in college, where—for a grade—I’d been forced to go to such events and keep a poetry journal of my own. I say “forced” because every other poetry reading I’ve ever been to was maddeningly dull. The readers take themselves really seriously, and they let their voices, the perfect cure for insomnia, drone on and on until I’m a blank stare with…