notes from AWP—I'm pretending not to see him so I can eat my lunch.
—But who reads that shit? About as true to life as a
   velvet grape.
—I think he judges poetry with his dick. And poets, too.
—What's the scoop on her? Is that her husband, or is he
   just hanging out in her hotel room for the duration?
—Personally I prefer not to think about his dick.
—His latest work, especially the poems about his dead father,
   begin to sound human.
—Think of it as a conductor's baton.
—Granted, she wins all the prizes, but talk about grandiose.
—The latest inductee into the goddess cult. Like back in the
   sixties when sex and war were the metaphors for
   consciousness-raising.
—I bet they're really confessional, and she's a total
   pervert too.
—He knows how to network, who to climb, and when.
   Timing is everything.
—Insomnia, maybe chronic fatigue syndrome. I think it's
   just frayed nerves.
—I always admired your work but can't figure why it's been
   so marginalized.
—You want my phone number?
—The illusion of the narrative appears in your work, but
   there's really a thread of the unspoken narrative, right?
—Are you married? Do you have children?
—Never even answered my inquiries, the pompous bastard.
—That's really sweet. Thank you.