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I did everything I could do for just-because happiness. I took a bed sheet and wore it as a cape to pretend I was a bird. I stomped my feet and shook my ass because I was taken with the rhythm of my own dancing. I joined the show choir to sing my heart out even though I knew I’d catch hell for the racy uniform when I got home. In a house bent on suffering I pressed the joy button.
Read MoreNow it’s one thing to sing a few sonnets or scrape together a few lines in high school, but a hundred pages of the stuff could overwhelm a poor fellow. He spent most of his time gulping fizzling colas and cheese steaks for lunch. Even then, Wrent never managed to string more than five lines together on the same subject. He couldn’t tell you when his attention span left him. TV, drugs, sex, rental showings, laundromats? But weren’t these post-poet events? A poem takes days of draining brain work whereas most other chores and diversions require thirty minutes or less. At the cheesesteakerie, he would be tossed at closing, thrown out again with the rotten lettuce and stale rolls—his limbs, pencils, and notepads strewn on the sidewalk. But back then, at least his writing went.
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