Come through the torrential rain to see me read at the Raven Bookstore tonight at 7:30. (With a few other co-conspirators: Irby, McCrary, Roitman.) I promise not to do all those embarrassing poet things: explain my poems, ask if I have time for one more, fumble through pages, clear my throat, sit on a shelf, use the "poet voice," refer to myself as a "poet," not know my poems, read for too long. (Good thing I read Mairead's little essay last night.) I will not bore you, preach to you, evoke those little poetry reading "sighs."

Especially not those little sighs. Anyone who sighs like that will be ejected from the reading. They are like these little annoying sighing semi-orgasmic grunts really, when there's some poignant moment in the poem. Don't you hate that? No wonder people have contempt for poetry.

There will be no poignancy. I promise not to use the words "lucent" or "opalescent." No "poetry words." I will not be sincere, or insincere. I will not sing coloratura. I will not bring my conga drum. You will not weep during my reading. You will go away happy from it. You won't feel compelled to stand up and say "You make me sick with all your talk about restraint and mature talent."

I will, on the other hand, read a part of my major new medium-length poem The Thelonious Monk Fake Book.

And, of course, there's Ken Irby. It's intimidating to follow him.