Strange

Strange,

you might be thinking,

going to a place where

half the poets are drunk

and crazy.

1988, a St. Louis,

working-class bar

in the heart of Soulard,

open mic night.

Strange,

because I went there

for inspiration,

myself newly sober.

Strange,

but at that time in

my life, it seemed

a perfect

exercise for me.

Strange,

to see how

useless it all was,

the useless reality

of the me I had

recently left behind.

Strange,

but inspiring

to see and hear

the insanity

of intoxicated mankind

reciting, the slobbering,

stammering

and mangling

of thoughts

and words.

Strange,

among them

the serious and

sober poets as well.

Some good, some

not so much,

and not one of them

including me

half as interesting.

Strange indeed,

I suppose,

my take away lesson

learned in poetry.

-30-

Chris Hanch 6-19-2020