Everette Maddox reading series

Here’s a link.

 And also this.

Yesterday I let Michael in on my secret to finding good poetry. He’s the only person I’ve ever told… still amazed he didn’t laugh at me

I’ll leave it in my will or something.

Here is a painting called Drunk Poet:

OK so I went to the reading. Here are my notes from the reading, transcribed from my 99 cent notebook:

“This older man still seems to think that drinking is romantic. He told a story about exploding  lentil soup. He even brought the bent aluminum pot he used to cook it in as a visual aid. He was drunk when he cooked. His forearms have severe burns all over them in the shape of lentils. I want to laugh but it seems inappropriate. He’s reading a poem by Bukowski right now called “Empties.” As a matter of fact, most people here – most in their late 40s+ – seem to buy into the notion that being a drunk poet is somehow romantic, when in reality it’s just a waste. Even sadder than your average drunk. A walking stereotype.”

“A beautiful Italian man is reading poems about saccharine love. They are not truth. Love is not nice.”

“‘I’ve got nothing to do tonight so I guess I’ll carve your name with a butterknife into my thigh.” — something I wrote on the spot, a variation of a line by Maddox.

I was sitting on a little brick ledge outside where the reading was. Here is a picture of the ground next to me:

Some of Everette Maddox’s ashes are buried out back in the corner – in the corner of the backyard of the Maple Leaf. Here’s a picture of his tombstone:

And here is a picture of my second, fresh Pilsner Urquel. Think Pi.