Another year, another poetry convention.
The Formalists are here in tar-black neckwear;
the Freebies, the Ranters, the Contemplators gather
in the wet bar for Absinthe and Apollinaire.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow:
three days of lectures at which to network.

If I could watch it from home on a network,
I would. Now there’s a terrific invention—
The Poetry Channel: “The Versed of Tomorrow
Today!” An exposé on Elizabethan neckwear,
and Who Wants to Marry Apollinaire?
Not much of a market, from what I gather.

Usually I come to these meetings together
with my poetry patron, whose net worth
exceeds that of your average millionaire,
but she just married Jesus in a convent on
the outskirts of Mamaroneck. Where
that is, who the hell knows? Ask me tomorrow

and I’ll probably say, “Ask me tomorrow.”
Maybe I should go to Mamaroneck to get her,
but nuns are such creatures of habit: that neckwear,
those habits. It’s a whole religious network,
I swear. They probably go to Christ conventions,
and I bet you can watch them appall on the air.

I’d like to see CNN take a poll on air
to end the suspense, or at least to narrow
it down: who throws a better convention,
nuns or poets? If not, we could gather
our own data to post on the Net, work
out a contest (or some kind of picnic) where

nuns and poets would neck, wear
each other’s clothing, pray to Apollo, Nair
each other’s genitals. Stockings (fishnet) work
well for me, too. I know—let’s do it tomorrow!
That way my patron won’t think I forgot her.
All Holy Sisters in the convent: shun

your vows to marry Christ (né Queer)!
All Horny Goatherds to Apollo: ne’er
fear! This is Divine Intervention at work!