Which will be particularly devastating when walking to the podium at the poetry event of the year you’ll trip over not even a real leg but an imaginary one and stumbling you’ll swing your arms wildly both of which carry a manhattan each because it’s that kind of poetry reading and you just can’t read if it’s not getting drunk in here, and so one manhattan lands in a poet-dowager’s purse drowning her pet field mice and the other leaps like a frog to sail whistling past the president of poetry himself and right into the eyes of his esteemed mistress, Miss Corruptibile, who is allergic to whiskey and whose face swells up like pink bread dough. Were it not for your poet’s ironic self-reflexive dividuation ability, the outrage and contempt would be enough to quash your self-regard—let alone your career in poetry—for years to come. But even as you fall, you are able to watch yourself fall as in a cartoon. Which’ll make all the difference—but goddammit you need another drink.
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