Why do we never get an answer when we're knocking at the door?
I've been asked a question several times and it's now time I gave you the answer. What question is that you ask questioningly to yourself. Why, it's the eternal question of who is the best poet writing right now. Gosh, I'm glad you asked. I don't know if he's the best but I sure am a big fan of Jimmy Santiago Baca. Fan sounds so lame. How about I am a great admirer of his writing? That sounds better. How do you describe a great poet? Without going into unecessary language, a great poet leaves you with a sense of wonder after you finish reading. He does that for me.
Speaking of poetry, I downloaded a copy of the second New York Dolls album last night. It's called 'Too much too soon.' It's such a decadent little rock and roll album. It's the kind of music that makes you want to buy a bottle of whiskey and kidnap a couple of girls from a middle school dance and take them to New Orleans and sell them into slavery and take your profits and buy an evening with a voodoo priestess prostitute and drink chicken blood off her breasts and then wash yourself in the Mississippi and then steal a car and drive to a juke joint, get beat up, hitchhike to Memphis, get some crank so to stay awake and then catch a ride on a riverboat casino where Don Rickles is entertaining and after the show you buy Don a drink and he tells stories all night long about Deano, Frank and Sammy. About three in the morning Don goes to bed and you pass out in the kitchen of the riverboat right next to the trash can used by the dishwasher. Good thing the Dolls only made two albums. Too many nights like that can't be good for you.