The Farce Side
My attention in grad school divided. Some stayed on my declaration to be a master of poetry. Comedy, on the other hand, was an equally attractive mistress-muse and one I'd loved almost as long—and I loved me on stage. To rage or parody or flat out goof or pratfall or streak naked—I was free, and on that stage, I needed no more proof. The undersexed (thus socially awkward) protopoet, who was never aloof but seemed to be so, found his misfit tribe acting out his angst in blood-red self-spoof. Ruttish sex, deviant sex, vibrators, weed, nitrous oxide, mushrooms, LSD— all in play—while in poems I circumscribed subterranean fires like some chaste scribe.