I went to Chicago last weekend, or at least I think I did. I got a cold pretty soon after arriving and as the days went on I got foggier and foggier. It felt like I was peering out of two small telescopes from inside my body. And now that I’m back in San Diego, where it’s 75 degrees…the whole thing feels even more like a dream. A dream where
I flew on an airplane with writers from San Diego and drank bloody Marys
then ate a pizza so thick it reminded me why they’re called pizza pies
then got picked up outside the pizza restaurant by Eric Suffoletto in a blue Lexus
and we drove to a bar with thick curtains attached to the ten-foot ceilings and drank cocktails fit for a princess at a picnic
and afterwards we drove through a scene from “The Dark Night”
then Katie Conway arrived and we ate green curry with scallops and bought tights and tissues at CVS
and I heard Nikki Giovanni talk in a big room with chandeliers and she reminded me about surrounding myself only with people who love me
and there were a lot of hip people selling books with confusing poems inside
and I ate French fries with brie and mushrooms on top
and it was my birthday
and everyone was calling me but I couldn’t talk
and Ilya Kaminsky sang happy birthday to me and it was a hilarious treasure
and I rode the el and took a taxi cab and wore a turtleneck and various hats
and named Katie’s boyfriend “the maestro of love” and drank wine in the hotel room
and it was flurrying and freezing and the wind was coming from every direction
and I met the woman who wrote the poem about herpes in the Beloit Poetry Journal and I told her she was doing an important thing for the world
and I bought books and journals or took them off tables
and Kate Gale was there and we sat in taupe armchairs and talked and she said hello to a dozen famous people whose names I knew but not the faces
and there was a secret present from Misha snuck into my bag
and on the train it was snowing and Dean was hungover and Jen had so many bags she looked like a vagabond Amazon with fancy belts
and the guy at security took my lotion away
and outside the airport San Diego was hot and over-bright as if lit by bulbs stolen from the rest of the country and there’s Misha in our car waving like he does with one hand raised up, not moving, just raised in hello
***
panache, perhaps 