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Poet Par Excellence

Joel Netsky

    After the established poets, there were open mike readings, where anyone could get up and recite. This one chap, a bit bedraggled-looking, his hands without material, approached the microphone. Into it he spoke. “I am the poet par excellence of the Neo-post-post-modern Age. My poem is untitled.

    I think;
    Therefore, I thunk.

    Thank you.” He stepped down.

    I thought, “I think; therefore, I thunk?”
    After the recital, wine and soda with cheese, crackers, cookies and fruit were placed on a table in the rear. I heard someone talking about the death of Neal Cassady as if he were a religious martyr, his soul ascending straight to heaven. People were milling, chatting. Looking at the women around the established male poets made me wish that I was a successful artist, but my creative endeavors were little better than that of the Poet Par Excellence, who I saw off to one side, popping cookies, sipping wine. An older gent went up to him, spoke; they smiled. One woman was talking about an upcoming election; I drifted away. Auden was mentioned – I liked his work, listened. The person was bemoaning his decline in stature, said that some of his pieces were truly unique. I opined that that’s the fate of all but the very great – the Shakespeare, the Joyce – who under the continued accretion of ever more recent poetry fade farther and farther into the background. I said I’ve read Auden and liked him, had a “Selected Auden” at home, but a lot of his poems, even in the “Selected”, as good as they are, aren’t truly, “to use a word, canonical.”
    A month later I returned to the next recital at the coffee house, but this time armed with a couple of poems. I had thought, How many chicks does a successful artist need? I then went through my scraps, took out those which I thought had some oomph, and like a Zen master focused on those poems until I had molded them into passable non-museum works of art. During the open mike period I was after the poet par excellence.
    He approached the mike, into it spoke. “Due to popular demand, I, the poet par excellence of the Neo-post-post-modern Age, am back. My poem is untitled.

    I eat;
    Therefore, I eated.

    Thank you.” He stepped down.

    Whether the ripple of chuckles like a slender brook through a landscape of imposing natural artifacts caused me to sound too serious or too sublime, the audience still dangling their feet in his pleasant current, after three poems I vacated the stage and returned to my seat. In the refreshment period after the recital I saw this cute chick talking with the poet par excellence; they both were smiling and at times even laughed. I popped cookies like a kid, and sipped at the wine.



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