so many friends
are coming to town
fellow writers
converging for
a convention
a confluence of
some of my favorite
ink stained souls

i am anxious
but not miserably so
excited by
the many hugs and
late night sessions
of oneupmanship
talking a craft
roaring as an inferno
inside our minds

i imagine how
hank would have
bitched and complained
drunkenly holding
court over all
and i realize
we are now the ones
steering our art
the ones others will
cite as inspiration
earning our stripes
to bitch and complain

if i think about it
the insanity of
pursuing your passion
despite common sense
saying the infinitesimal
chance of success
sacrificing sleep
not eating for weeks
because this is what
we were born to do
makes me imagine briefly
sisyphus fucking smiling

writing is solitary
but writers thrive in
a community of
like minded madnesses
and we are the ones
etching the future in
fitful lines hoping
they will be read
so this weekend i get
to sit with the big dogs

maybe one day they
will imagine what it
was like to sit with
a poetic fool the same
i imagine an evening
listening to bukowski
or at least i can dream
and try to leave a
slash in beauty
no one can ever deny