These fragments I have shorn against our ruin:
An
unconfirmed case of spontaneous AWP rapture: mid-morning I almost
tripped over this topcoat, briefcase, and hat on the floor of the
convention hall:
I
hope he was ready. I'd like to think what launched this literary
pilgrim was one of the sessions– an early morning magical realism or
slip stream barrage or a jewel of insight into "Expectations into the
Mulit-Genre Classroom" or a reading from the Afghan Women's Writing
Project.
More likely it was prose fatigue or transcoastal disconnect. Like this fragment overhead walking through the halls:
"Where you from?"
"I used to be from England. But now I'm from Southern California."
This
AWP the Year of People Dressed in Costumes and Other People Wearing
Weird Shit on Their Heads:
There was the man with a balloon hat and anther with two bright white
headbands. There was a centurion in vinyl armor hawking a poetry
collection called CIRCUS MAXIMUS.
Then finally to end the morning a woman in a shark costume handed me an invitation to a off-site poetry slam.
After
that I wandered into the connecting mall to watch the wet snow fall and
sit with the old men drinking Dunkin Doughnuts coffee in their work
clothes.