[Continued from pervious chapter.]

I was back down on the first floor walking towards the convention area and noticed a tall woman with long golden curly hair, fishnet stockings, high heeled boots, wearing a skimpy dress and she was also wearing a derby hat. Suddenly in front of me she went down. I stopped so fast to try to catcher her; I feared I was going to end up on top of her in, "Romancing the Stone Fashion."

She was with two large young black men and they too failed to secure her transition to the floor. What amazed me was she was holding a huge one quart cup which busted open, but for a couple of ounces of water or clear soda and a couple of lemon halves which managed to hit the floor, she saved it.

I expressed my amazement, and she replied, "I had to save it, there's a good deal of vodka in there and I don't want to lose the party I have on." This woman had personality written all over her and my guess was radio.

Since both of us were headed to the display area we continued walking to the convention and chatted, and indeed she was a radio personality, as she did podcasting. She was there to sell the skin care products and creams that she made.

Then we talked about the convention hallway, I stated in addition to attending the convention for the contest, I was also there in research and development. Trying to see if racial incitement can become a good technique in poetry and the two black guys with her had that cartoonish look about their face of, What the hell!

She immediately became angry and in a somewhat over animated fashion said, "That's wrong ... Man, that's just plain wrong!"

"No, it isn't about using racial incitement to separate, but so that in the end to get people to recognize the truth and bring about a positive change."

"Nope, racial incitement is wrong, no matter how good you say it is. You're wrong and I don't want to talk about it."

I put more of the site's cards with my display and walked outside to supplement the patch and bummed a cigarette form a man who was smoking with his wife standing by. I found out I wasn't the only one suffering hardships at the convention as just to get there, the husband took his wife around door to door and sold copies of her poetry to make the needed money to attend the convention.

We spent a lot of time talking about poetry and he seemed fascinated with me as I explained what I felt poetry was all about. I used as an example my poem titled, "Autumn's Signaling Leave," which I explained was written as a contest entry to explain to a blind person what Autumn was all about, using the senses that they already have.

I suddenly got a disgusted reaction from the woman and a bit of an angry gesture from the man, and realized that she was blind. Had I the poem to read, I think they would have understood and I offered to get it and read it, but they pretty much decided to leave and I heard them making negative remarks towards me. I thought, This instant type of intolerance must be like a switch being thrown?

In the hall I ran across Allen Rose and asked him if he had read the script. "Mike, I'm afraid that I hadn't because there are so many things to do at this convention, I just hadn't had the time ... But I promise you, I will." I told him that didn't matter anymore because it was very time sensitive to his, "Polishing Your Presentation."

I was put off because I didn't think he was being honest with me, and felt he looked it over and passed it on, though the only evidence was from one of the site's reviewers, "You write scripts?"

I had managed to sneak in a couple of open Mics and did my presentation, "Mike's Speaking Methods," and read the poem, "I! The Organ Grinder!" There were a lot of dropped jaws when I chugged down the bottle of, "Whiskey," and walked off center stage. I was told I was pretty good and they would have rather watched me instead of the Slam Poetry demonstration.

It was time, so I sneaked around the halls and darted in one of the lecture rooms where Professor Kelly Cherry gave her lecture and I was amused at a couple of men trying to figure out the sound system as she had vocal cord problems and needed more volume.

Tired and starving, I thought about next year's convention and how much fun it would be to have her vocal demise enter into my poetic persona. Many convention attendees arrive there early, and I thought it would be a blast to say that she must be in love with me because of the way she talks after meeting me. Also I just can't get enough of her and then read a love poem I was planning to pop on her. Never mind you, this is fictitious and never would have happened because she's married.

I had all the fun in the world thinking about how something like that would mess with all the people attending the lecture. I also had the worst feeling in the world if the convention staff already had enough of me this year, they will hate me the next. For this lecture, I played it cool and enjoyed it, being the first one that I actually was able to sit in.

After the lecture, it was back to the display area, and I noticed a lot of people were looking at my display and one walked up and inquired about purchasing my portfolio book, and with my financial situation, considered it but stated that right now I only have two copies and wanted to keep the display intact.

I talked to another two women who loved my work, and their favorite poem was, "My Pet Goose," and wanted me to read it. I started to, but they interrupted and the one woman said, "No! You have to read it like this."

She did the reading in a very high pitched voice and the syntax was child-like, but so exaggerated I could only ask, "You teach drama?"

"Yes, I do!"

"Elementary school?"

"Third grade!" In my mind it explained a lot. We talked for a while, and then I spied the Radio Woman who previously fell in the hall and tried to talk to her."

"Nope, you're wrong, stay away from me."

"I would at least like to explain ..."

"I don't deal with people like you, get away!" Her two black male friends were still there.

I walked over to the two black men in the reading room and talked, who wanted me to give another N-word story, which cracked them up and started another conversation that gained in volume."

I noticed that once again, the white people within ear shot vacated the area. The ex-military black guy suggested that I do work up the routine for a comedy performance, but I told him, "Have you noticed the reaction of the white people? I don't think they would go for it, to pull off the routine I think it would have to be an all black venue."

I was more interested in being in poetry, and through them I was able to fine tune some of the elements of the poem which would use the racial incitement. Once our gathering was concluded, I walked near up to the Radio Woman who said, "Nope! Not interested!"

I decided to talk to the two black guys hanging around her instead, and managed to explain the intent of the poem through their somewhat angered and befuddled haze. They started asking questions, and we talked, until one of them told the Radio Woman and said, "Hey, you got to check him out, he's pretty cool."

I chatted with her between her talking to potential customers about her creams and found out she developed them for her Vitiligo which was mainly on her arms. I also talked about my future plans of intending to record my poems and put them together with music. She thought that was pretty neat and handed me her card as she expressed an interest in including them on her pod casts.

I was off to another symposium lecture and once again, just outside of the door in my Bermuda Triangle of poetry got lost in conversation with another interested attendee who also advised me to contact the convention to see if I could lecture. While flattered, I somehow got the thought that I would be the first person ever to be handed an Ex Parte to keep me away from all future conventions.

With only a half an hour of the lecture left, I went to my room to get some rest and with that failing, went to get ready for the evening show and discovered I couldn't find my ticket to attend either the dance or the banquet the next evening.

I also took it upon myself to check the wallet for the fifty dollar bill I should have, but despite my feeling it was there, still couldn't find it. I was now ripping apart my room and everything in it for the ticket and not finding it. It was an emotional trip back downstairs as I went to the convention staff in a total state of panic to explain the situation.

In walking through, an attendee asked me what the problem was and when I told him he said, "Man that's bad luck because those tickets are $100.00 a piece. This only added to my frustrations and in near tears, I explained to Allen Rose what happened and he sort of laughed and sent me to the staff. At the convention's reception desk, I explained my problem and basically started breaking down on them.

The woman said that she is manning the door tonight, so getting in won't be a problem for me and just stop by the reception area tomorrow morning and make sure I get another ticket for the banquet dinner.

Much happier now, I went back to the room and got ready. That night the convention staff put on another show, and afterwards The Coasters would play for the dance. Not having anyone there with me, I would have preferred to have it a concert form. While I did wonder about The Convention Woman, I also wondered if I should find someone else to dine with, but the only other woman was a fairly young blond lady in a Scoot About who also had crutches to get around. She was from California.

It was just before the program was to get started, I discovered The Convention woman, but what I found disturbing was; I discovered her through her own betrayal because as she saw me, she started to have panic attacks about it. The look on her face broke my heart as she was constantly glancing back at me with her mouth open and hands shaking. I just couldn't understand why she was having poetic fun about me trying to find her, then why she was acting like that when I did?

The program started and it was much like last years, with the poets of the convention staff coming up and reading their poems. Afterwards, was the dance and I loved both the class and the performance The Coaster gave, and appreciated their security letting me do what I needed to so I could get good photographs of them.

Many couples danced, but I saw The Convention Woman sitting alone in her bubble so I tried to talk to her, "Excuse me ... Do you remember me from last year?" She was sitting in the chair, motionless like a statue looking forward in a seemingly catatonic state, holding her breath and forming the hands into her lap into fists which were glued to her sides."

I was so taken aback, but tried again to the same response; with this sort of panicked breath holding, looking straight ahead as if she was a statue, treatment. I couldn't understand this, and it hurt me as anyone who would have dinner with me and such a good time there, should be able to say, "Hello." She certainly wasn't a best friend as replied to from a poem.

I watched the Coasters for a while and when I left the area where I managed to catch up with Dr. Herbert Martian, but he was sort of rock-star-ish as he had many people following him to compliment his performance as, Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Not to mention, asking him questions and complimenting him. While this gave me the biggest kick, my attempts at getting his attention weren't going anywhere until I said, "Dr. Martin, I found a way to use racial incitement in poetry for a positive end!"

He stopped dead and looked at me with the most curious smile, "Oh yea? How so?" His look was priceless.

I explained what I was doing with my poem and the fact I was worried about it causing problems with black people, but my nerves where eased because I tested the idea here and black people who give me enough time and respect to follow it through to the end.

I admitted I pushed it and as a result of my living in Baltimore, ended up giving a comedic routine about the N-word in my life. He wasn't so approving of that tidbit, but I shared my observations, "As critical as black people are on something like that, everyone laughed (at my demise), but it was the white people who were uncomfortable with both the poem, the routine as well discussing issues and scooted.

That wasn't the reason that I stopped him, so I asked him the name of the spiritual he sang with the poem, "My Mother At The End Of Her Days." It turned out to be a tune titled, "I Told Jesus it would be alright, if he changed my name." He also gave me a couple of artists to look up. By that time a crowd had gathered and after shaking his hand, I left him to his demise of trying to get to his room.

I was so tired and disgusted with The Convention Lady, I walked away from the performance, and left for my room. Still with the construction noises of loud banging of metal on metal and not able to find much sleep I penned the poem, "Needle in a Haystack," concluding it with, "Undertaking such an endeavor (looking for a needle in a hay stack) has been called an act for the insane. It would be better to find it by running through one's own foot, thus causing ... less pain."

Needles to say, I was once again downgraded for my spelling and I think the site got a kick out of the fact the Russian boys locked me out of my own computer. I thought of the way she looked and was the spitting image in her business suite like dress of a photograph placed under another member's name, and it didn't seem like the usual members reviewed my poem, though I thought she was still one of them that did.



I think I got the most unbroken sleep so far, being about four hours, and headed back to the convention the next morning. Being Saturday, I decided the last of the Vinegar Chips will have to do until I ate at the banquet. That meant that I would be able to buy a pack of cigarettes and ditch the patches for the last day.

I checked the other poetry at the writing site and My Favorite Member had a poem that to me was expressing both panic and a hissy fit, "Banging, banging, in my head. That's all I hear," was the paraphrased gist of the panic attack.

I decided to review it and mentioned, I had the same problem with the banging in my head because the construction going on next door to my hotel was preventing me from getting any decent sleep. I told her what some of the aspects of the poetry convention which was going on were like what she stated in her poem and even though she wasn't here, I swore that she was.

Her reply was a humor one, "My dear Mike K, that is foolish because I was talking about the MRI I had yesterday."

I did wonder if The Cowgirl actually had one because of her shoulder, or if it was actually The Convention Woman, who I now felt should be getting one. Hell by this time, I thought I should have one too, with an oxygen container still hooked up to me!"

I quickly and stealthily slipped in for Dr. Herbert Woodward Martin's lecture, "The Recipe of a Poem." He had a skeleton outline of what looked like a standard form for actually a recipe and asked everyone to fill it in. I did so gleefully and in a short while, we discussed it.

It was a wonderful lecture and had my hand risen, ready to contribute all the time. However, I think I was the one person he wouldn't be call on and yes, I think he noticed as when he looked over at me, he had a smile on his face. Still, I loved both what he said, his mannerisms, and in my opinion, how a poetry course should be started off in high school English classes.

It was just after going outside and bumming the rare cigarette I discovered that The International Library of Poetry, had went out of business and sold the site name to LuLu Publishing who also took on The International Society of Poetry.

I was a bit disheartened and it also explained to my mind why Mark, the society's treasurer, was lurking about and observing so much. While I still pictured him as an Eastern Block spy, I did like that fact that he was helping out as well. My fear was directed towards the next convention and I hoped the change would continue the Poetry Convention tradition unmolested.

From the quick un-recommended smoke with patch, it was back to the display area and I met the lady who also displayed at last year's convention, and though we talked for a bit there, we talked much more this year.

She is Miss Elma, owner and editor of Poems Of The World, which is quarterly publication. She was a petite woman from the Philippines, who lives in the Midwest and is hip deep into poetry. She always struck me as that typical editor of poetry; she wore the reading glasses on a chain around her neck, and just maintained the comportment of an editor.

Though small and simple, I went through her periodicals and enjoyed the poetry. I told her that I was lucky to be there and will definitely purchase a subscription after I get home which was what I actually wanted to do the year before.

Then I made for an awkward situation and mentioned I had a poem that may interest her and offered her a chance to read it. She told me it would be best to wait until after the convention is over and mail it in. "No really, please let me get it for you because it is right over on my display."

"No, I would prefer that you mail it, besides you don't want to break up your display."

"No Miss Elma, it's no problem and no one will miss it for a couple of minutes." I had a feeling I knew the reason behind her reluctance to read it; because she preferred to read at her desk, not in person because she was honest and didn't want to have to reject or criticize a poem in front of the author, which may affect a subscription purchase as well.

Her reaction was exactly what I wanted and would relish no matter how it turned out, so I went over got the poem and in one of her spare minutes, handed it to her. It was my poem, "Sir! I Kneel Down to You!" A tribute poem for Sir Edmund Hillary, and the effect he had on my life.

She started to read it, and I watched her attention draw into the poem deeper and deeper, but what happened next was unexpected as she started shedding tears. In fact she had to remove her glasses and wipe her eyes to continue. In my life, I would never expect one of my poems to have such an effect, especially with someone who publishes poetry and it proved to me the value in continuing my writing pursuits, regardless of financial or popularity rewards.

Miss Elma really didn't have to say that she liked the poem, but I really appreciated when she told me, "Yes, I would love to put this into Poems of the World, so as soon as you get home, send it to me immediately so I can include it in the next issue." We talked further about including photographic files and other contributions I could submit for consideration. -It has been an honor ever since to be a frequent contributor to, "Poems Of The World."



It was now time for the final round of symposium lectures and indeed, I made a bee-line for them as I wanted to listen to W.D. Snodgrass's in total. Damn if it didn't happen again and I was stopped outside of the display room door and kept into the Bermuda Triangle of the poetry convention, discussing poetry and everything related until the lecture was damn near over.

I had only about ten minutes left and immediately entered into the room that Snodgrass was lecturing in. As soon as I hit that threshold, I felt, Something was very wrong here, and it struck me as repulsive. Upon grabbing my seat, I observed Snodgrass was sitting in a chair at the same level as the attendees and there was this woman behind Snodgrass sitting on the stage with her hands extended towards his back. It only added to the bizarre feeling I was originally struck with.

He lectured as usual but for whatever reason, things seemed off ... Really off. After the lecture ended, a small line formed and people talked to him, but I was more interested in the woman still sitting behind him, so I asked, "Who are you?"

She smiled and said, "I am a certified Reiki practitioner and supplying W.D with the energy I think he needs." A bit of a shock, but I figured if it works so much the better, if it doesn't work then no harm no foul. But my biggest question was, Why would Snodgrass permit this?

I was next in line and tuned into the conversation of the person before me, when I heard Snodgrass say, "Well it is because of Bush's war on Iraq."

I was floored by such a statement from him, "Excuse me, Mr. Snodgrass. How can you call it Bush's war on Iraq when both Saddam Hussein and his parliament not only formally declared war on the United States, but threatened to destroy New York City?"

I never expected Snodgrass to give me the deer in the headlights look or to be totally stymied. His wife immediately jumped up from where she was sitting and came over to me saying, "No, you mustn't bother Mr. Snodgrass like that. She also led me off away from him.

While I was agitated, I said, "Well then I will talk to you!" I loved the expression on her face, and simply introduced myself, discussed meeting Snodgrass for the first time last year and recounted his observing me write the poem on, "The World's Longest Poem for Peace." I also explained I don't mind in the least, politics entering into poetry but I do mind when facts are bent to reinforce them.

Last, I had my second writing site portfolio book and decided to give her a couple of related poems for Mr. Snodgrass to read after the convention. Concluding my talk with Mrs. Snodgrass; I felt I deserved the right so I butted up in front of the line and simply shook W. D. Snodgrass's hand and stated it was an honor to know him.

Immediately after the lecture, was the signing of books, with W.D. Snodgrass and theprofessors who gave the lectures. I really regretted not having the money to purchase their books as something told me, it was the best opportunity.

I wasn't to my first professor when the black ex-military guy introduced me to a middle-late aged black woman as he wanted me to explain my poem concept to her. I thought, Well she's really out of my target audience and is obviously a devout church attendee, whose simple disparaging thought is going to land me straight into hell!

I summoned up the courage and both her and her husband asked me questions and the back and forth was very positive. I was actually amazed to receive both of their blessings, then the military black guy said, "Do some of your N-word routine for them."

I was aghast, but since mention of it was my dumb idea in the first place, I told the story of the first time I uttered the word, "Nigger." I decided that black people reveled at the notion of a white boy's father hitting the brakes and sending him into the windshield.

From there the conversation went into civil rights and my observations and no doubt both of them had participated in the movement. They really liked my thinking of how I guided my life, "Everyone is my equal until they prove otherwise." I was also painfully honest of my fears for too often these days, civil rights issues at times were being used inappropriately or simply as a means to capitalize on, which actually devalues what civil rights is all about.

I made it to the third line when I was once again interrupted by two women who wanted to buy more poem, "Now! ROMeo and Joule-liette," my modern translation of Shakespeare's great play of internet romance tragedy. They wanted to pay me $15.00.

Boy, with my situation I did want to take the money they offered, but was so humbled with it, I told them, "Sure, you can have it for free, the poetry display is about over anyway."

"You don't understand, we want you to autograph it."

I laughed and told them, "I'll do that for free also." After signing my work and handing it back to them, they decided to pay me $5.00 anyway and thanked me as they were low on their funds as well.



Having enjoyed that part of the convention I went back to my hotel room to get ready for the diner. I did wonder about the convention woman, but despite the negative behavior from her as well my feelings, I decided that I would walk the line and see if we would be sitting together. I knew if that was to come about, it would somehow be from her doings. Still, I had that feeling sitting with her wasn't going to be an option this year.

I went downstairs and the line was already pretty full, so I started walking towards the front of the line and looking. Nearly to the front of the line were those two older women who coached me about adding drama to my poetic readings. They grabbed my attention and insisted I sit with them. Well it won't be The Convention Woman this time; it will be an elementary school drama teacher and her friend.

The line started moving and we filed in and I was amazed we grabbed a table two back from the stage. Since I was there the year before, I they wanted to know how that one was, and in describing the magic with the unidentified actress, they barely could believe it. I still had the photographs in my camera, but decided not to show them the pictures.

I looked at the table just ahead of me and there she was! I couldn't believe it as I knew this wasn't planned and since she was with another man, simply thought, OK, she brought her husband along this time. But, in my mind it still didn't explain her behavior toward me the night before.

The courses started coming out and being this was survival for me, I immediately excused myself and started digging in. Had a hand made it to the plate to take it away like last time, I would have stabbed them with the knife or fork! Probably eating what I could cut off too.

Once I had gobbled down the desert and had a couple of coffees, I was outside to grab a cigarette before the convention show started. Ironically The Convention Woman's partner for the banquet had just walked out, so I had a better look at him.

He had long black hair and was dressed well, but I gave up on the notion of him being her husband as he had a different name on his name tag and was from, if I remember correctly Indiana. I bummed a cigarette off of him and we chatted.

He turned out to be a long haul truck driver. Going through my mind was a couple of statements from the writing site, "You don't have too, because it is you Mike K, you're on my wall of victims!" as well, being chided about my sickly short hair, "I want a man with long hair, so I can pull and tease it!" An image of him was now created of him totally ending up being sexually attacked, and it was hard to hold back from laughing. I didn't have the heart to talk much, because I pretty much considered him her next victim.

Back inside the show had started with the convention poets giving their readings and I got a few photographs of Snodgrass before the batteries died. I put a pair of the new batteries in and the camera refused to work, so I opened up the next pack and same thing. I then looked at them and realized they only hinted of being alkaline in appearance, and were actually carbon-zinc and didn't have the juice the camera needed.

It was now in a mad dash off to the hotel store and attracting the attention of the hotel security, which was more like a police force; I raised the camera and uttered the fateful word, "batteries!"
This got a chuckle or smile from the guards and a step out of the way. I got a new pair of batteries and asked butt in the line. I really appreciated that everyone allowed this.

In my mad dash back to the convention banquet, I barked to the security officers, "Got em!" I arrived back in time, put the batteries in the camera and heard the camera power up just in time to catch the conclusion of Herbert Woodward Martian's poem, "My Mother At The End Of Her Days," along with his singing of the Negro spiritual, "I told Jesus everything's alright and he changed my name."

The last of the professors went up and did their reading and I noticed The Convention Woman watching me with her huge eyes. Sometimes she seemed concerned, other times pondering, and occasionally amused. When her attention was back at the table, as she stated, "I love being the life of the party," came into my mind. Yet to me, the performance was forced and over done.

With the last poet finished, it was now time for Tony Danza to appear and I couldn't wait as I remembered watching him on the show, "Taxi," and was looking forward to enjoying his performance so I took up my position to photograph him, as well many other people getting their cameras and coming up front with me.

The bodyguard stepped out, then it was announced, "Photography won't be permitted with Tony Danza, so please return to your seats and put away your cameras!"

I was bummed, but respectfully put away the camera and returned to my seat, there was still the performance to enjoy!

Tony Danza stepped out and started talking, but The Convention Woman suddenly turned around and pointed her camera at me and snapped a picture, to which I posed for. You asshole! You fucking asshole, you posed! The only pose she deserves is one with your middle finger in front of your face!

Just at that moment, a woman went up to the front of the stage and pointed her camera at Tony Danza and the bodyguard, ran up to her and pushed her camera into her face hard. Members of the convention crowd gasped. I immediately stood up, and knew I was only seconds away from the huge black, bald, bodyguard with the cool sunglasses dealing with me; but not before I jumped up on stage and broke the cunt's nose, known as Tony Danza.

I realized the crowd of 1,200 people wouldn't really like that, and with the emotions The Convention Woman generated, as well as the body guard's bullshit, I decided to leave the banquet immediately and return to my room.



The walk was very avant-garde movie-like, as the halls seemed extraordinarily long and despite making fast paced time, those halls seemed to be getting longer in length. I had the imagery going through my head from, "The Shining." Between the Grand Ball Room and the elevators, I encountered six security guards who now seemed to freak out and show extreme apprehension towards me.

I couldn't help but admire it, and it told me they had a lot about a cop's senses, because I wondered if they read my mind; as I was thinking about overpowering each of them, taking their guns, re-racking it, putting it to my head and pulling the trigger! Not that I had actually planned to do that, as it was a pleasant symbolic thought for me, as I felt thist was the very moment in my life I knew I had lived too long.

Back at my room, took a hot bath, and long shower and attempted to get sleep, which would not come to me because of the amount of adrenaline in my system. Still being livid over the whole affair I decided to pen a poem showing my thoughts on the matter.

Once posted, strangly enough, the reviews started coming in and I was made fun of for not being a good speller, then there were the comments about the content which just irritated me further. Perhaps it was The Convention Woman and she was trying to use humor to cheer me up, but I couldn't stand the stupid remarks, or the total stupidity displayed to me at the banquet. I decided to pen in another stanza and told the reviewer, "You obviously refuse to get the gist of this poem, as well the other members in this rare instance, so I added an additional stanza to help you out."

They were greeted with something along the lines of, "Obviously in your life you don't apply the golden rule, I never thought in a million years you could be so cruel! How you would like it if I reveal your name, if I did your life would never be the same!"

It took only two seconds when right in the room behind me, I heard one hell of a pissed of woman hiss, "I had enough of this fucking shit!" At the very instant I was knocked off line and that just added to my anger and frustration because I spent $30.00 for the hotel internet service.

I immediately went off line and then back on, but still couldn't get the site back on. Then I realized the internet was working and I could get all of the other sites in. I tried the writing site again and made the horrible discovery, the computer had a dialog box with showed the Java commands and the one for the writing site spelled out, "Java script command, ID blocked;" or as I translated it to in my mind, " You just got C-blocked!"

I almost threw the computer through the window, but hit my bed and bawled my eyes out. I just couldn't believe because all I ever wanted was an honest friendship and to be treated decently. I now understood full well what all of the werewolf, vampire and black widow poetry was all about, gaining a friendship and internet relationship, then enjoying with gratification as you pull out the rug from under the dumb saps feet and cause as much pain as possible.

I was so happy the construction next door had stopped and looked forward to a restful and quiet sleep, but all the thoughts in my head were screaming so that was out of the question. I drank my last two beers, plus the remainder of the Johnny Walker Blue label with "The Blue Label Woman," poem in front of me. It was a testament to Johnny Walker that it still tasted like nectar despite my evening.

It was very late or better said, "Early in the morning," before sleep overcame me, but at that very instant, I heard a woman yell out in the hall, "Stop raping me! Rape! Rape!" I heard a body hitting the wall, then another and it all was coming in my direction!

I was now standing on my bed, as I knew security wasn't going to be getting there in time. I immediately put my pants on and went to the door to bust out on the bad guy. However, I must have really had my ear close to the door as I heard her yell rape again, so I undid the safety latch' then heard her laughing and chiding with a perceived smile, "No, I am calling this rape."

With even more playful laughter, "You don't want to go there; I'll yell it out again." Then I heard his voice in an amused, but begging tone. I can't say for sure, but it sounded like The Radio Woman and one of her black friends.

This all continued down the hall and they into the room beside me and the screaming, yelling and screams of rape continued for some time, as well as the laugher and begging which was becoming more pronounced. Finally it all quieted down except for the woman yelling out, "Ahhhh!"

Then him, "Ahhhhhh!" Then her, then her again, him? Another him, then both! It seemed only a minute or two later it stopped as they made soft exclamations of the joys of that sex; leaving me to ponder, Jesus Christ, all of that for that? -An hour of bullshit for a minute or two of sex? At least Mike you can work it out right and keep the foreplay to an intense minute and her not saying she is going to yell rape until an hour later.

By the time I went to sleep, the alarm woke me up, so I checked out the writing site and managed to find the ID block was gone. I also had a review from My Favorite Member who now seemed to express serious concern for me.



I had only one statement to make, but two lines of thought about making it. First I wanted her to know how horrible The Convention Woman's reaction was and why a positive one would have meant so much to me and to hopefully show her how much she screwed me up, and to let her know that her plan really worked and she can gloat over it if she likes.

I also wanted her to know I borrowed the money so I could enjoy myself there, and to be in touch with the writing site was the only reason that I would pay $30.00 for the internet at the hotel; and somehow I lost the rest of my money so I was getting by on food with only $5.00 a day and basically starving. I also stuck in the knife, "That is how far I am willing to go with my poetry which has supplied me with the love that no woman seems willing to do."


I decided I wasn't going buy any more food there, and got that pack of cigarettes instead, removing my patch with glee. I headed in very early to the final event, the Awards Ceremony, but had the bad feeling that I wouldn't be winning because they feared my performance in costume would interfere with their program. Given my performance, it was something I could understand.

The problem was, I still didn't know if I would win or not, so I had to be prepared in the off chance I did and had to go up on stage. For the lighting of the headlamp, I had fixed the problem of popping the condom with a paper clip as the metal paperclip worked much better with the glue anyway. I didn't worry about representing the flame as the paperclip would reflect enough of the stage light back and the spotlight flame wouldn't have been seen anyway.

I stepped outside of the room and found out the elderly lady was still dressed with her lace jester hat and I asked her how she enjoyed the convention. "I loved doing the reading and sitting in on things, but I didn't go to the Banquet. I lost my tickets."

"Damn! I wished I knew sooner because I lost my tickets too and they have extra to give out for such problems. All you had to do was go down to the reception desk for the convention let them know what happened."

She grabbed my arm and knowing I was upset at her demise, started laughing and said, "No, please don't worry about it, I didn't know what to do so I played the slots all night and look what I won! I hardly put anything in to boot." She pulled out the winning slots voucher and it had over $3, 5000.00 on it! I had the feeling that was where I was supposed to be too, and I gave her a hug and a congratulations.



If I was called for an award, I figured I had less than thirty seconds to walk up on stage fully dressed, and secured the seat which would allow me to do this very early. As soon as I walked into the Grand Ball Room, there was The Convention Woman, sitting in the back. 

What was going through my mind? Well Mike, it seems you smoked her out as she is there out of costume ... In fact she's baring her all! Well, just her shoulder's anyway. Mikey, if she's not the type to kill you when you are sleeping, then she would be after you turned those huge freckles of her into cartoon characters one night.

She looked back and seeing me, just about jumped out of her skin, but first things first. I had to find my seat and get my gear on it. I found the seat I wanted, and then poked about behind the speakers to find my changing spot, or really just to slip things on. I then checked out various positions for my photography.

I noticed The Convention Woman was constantly watching me sitting there all alone and peering out behind those huge eyes. I really wanted to talk to her, but what do I say?

Do I act like the ladies that shook her hand, "Oh it's so nice to meet you, I'm glad you came?"

Act like I saw her at the last convention, but as if never dined with her; "Hey, I remember seeing you at the last convention, how are you doing? I hope you had a good time this year!"

Do I ask her what I really wanted to know, "I think we had a good time together last year and maybe enjoyed each other's company throughout the year, what the hell happened with you? Why did things change?"

Maybe go for the throat, "Hey, you were a real bitch this go around, I really appreciate you taking the joy I saw at your ruining my convention experience!"

Do I beg, or do what I always seemed to have to do with Rita, "I'm sorry, I don't know that I did anything wrong, but I apologize since I upset you so much. Is it my existence that's the root of your problems?"

Do I get angry and tell her how I really feel, "I think you're a real fucking bitch that should be slapped around for the way you are! Did you simply think of me as some sucker? Was I nothing more than some joke to you? Well, that's how I feel now, congratulations!"

About a third of the convention crowd was now in the Ball Room and I thought one of two things would have happened. My temper would have raged as if it was the thunder of God, or I would completely break down in front of everybody. To me neither would have been acceptable displays.

Should I simply ask The Convention Woman for an explanation? The Rita thought was still in my mind, and all I think I would get is a bunch of lies until I had to say I was satisfied. I had a couple of thoughts on the matter.

It was her site, and she was hip deep with the convention in both the academic aspects and the judging of the poems, hence her late entrance. She feared that she would compromise herself in judging those poems. I wasn't seeking any influence or covert liaison, but if need be I would have disqualified myself for the judging.

I had already stated I would do so with my proposed participation in their program. I saw the convention antics as what Norman and I did when we were in boy scouts together. There were times we took things to far, but we always paid our dues and at least apologized as we wanted all to have an enjoyable experience.

I decided not to talk to The Convention Woman at all, but hoped she would decide to talk with me, though I doubted that would happen. Then I saw her latest dinner man sitting next to her (with a chair space apart) and couldn't control my reaction. I busted out with a huge, thunderous belly laugh of delight and thought, It serves you right you fucking bitch! He's the person you deserve to sit with, not me.

Throughout the final ceremonies, I peeked over and amused myself with what I considered the poetry convention version of the painting, "American Gothic," only she held the pitchfork.

Just before the final program was about to start, the Ex-Military Black Man jumped up on stage and yelled, "Atten- hut! Prepare yourselves of a salute to the military veterans!" The convention staff just about shit themselves and Allen Rose came to the stage and tried to talk him down. He explained what he was doing, how long it would take and basically indicated they don't want to attempt to remove him by force.

The Military Black Man gave a fine tribute to the convention attendees and read his poem about the military veterans; especially the one's serving currently in combat zones overseas. Most of the audience clapped, but I immediately got up and gave him a standing ovation with a hearty. "Amen!"

It was only myself and the black crowd that had stood up like that and I kind of liked the company because there were the most understanding and respectful people at the convention, especially since I pushed things quite a bit. It was through them I understood the power of storytelling though poetry and even honed my skills a bit. To me, his poetic tribute was an award winner as well.

The final program got started and it was a long sit through, though it moved relatively fast. I was happy with all who won awards for their poetry, as in my mind the quality of them couldn't be disputed. It was enjoyable to see the Poems of the World editor, Miss Elma win a fairly sizable award for her very nice poem. At the end of the awards, the convention was over and I stuck around and photographed the winners, as well shook a lot of hands with most people walking up to me.

I noticed they had scrolled the names of the convention attendees on the projected video and that The Convention Woman had changed her name for a slightly different one. I talked the convention people to scroll them a few more times and photographed a couple of the names.

I then shook hands with the convention staff and then a funny thing happened, but not in a good way. I shook hands with Mark the Treasurer, who still had that feel of an Eastern Bloc spy, and I told him about the convention fun and the antics of The Convention Woman, unfortunately I accidentally named dropped and he suddenly got the appearance of absolute shame and he walked away.

I couldn't understand this, so I shook Allen Rose's hand and also thanked him for his role in the convention, then informed him of my most frustrating part, The Bermuda Triangle of poetry just outside the display room door. He sort of laughed at that aspect of my convention. Since he knew I was not only a friend of the convention, and also defended it; I wanted to get his take on The Convention Woman and named dropped.

He too had the look of absolute shame, which I still didn't understand as he too should have laughed, especially since I didn't indicate it made me mad. My fear was I struck a nerve in them to the point it may influence how they do the conventions and cause problems for The Convention Woman, but my sense of God told me not to get upset or worry about it. One thing was for sure, I felt everybody now knew me as a straight shooter.

Walking on the final long journey of the first floor to get to the elevators and get to my room, The Convention Woman's banquet dining partner walked up to me and just had the look of wanting an explanation. I told her collateral damage, "Look, I don't know much about her and she has her ways, so the best thing I can tell you is, 'To enjoy your experience with her!."

It was to my room and to pack the last few things away and in the process found the entertainment and banquet tickets in the hotel's information book. Not remembering that I did it, I wondered if the cleaning staff placed them in there for safe keeping. I double checked my wallet, but couldn't find any $50.00 bill, so I wondered if I should have simply stayed in my room and not attend any for the evening entertainment.

I think that Allen Rose wasn't exactly happy about me relating my experience with the hotel and all of it assorted fees, and wondered if he somehow didn't know what a sacrifice for me it was. He explained to that they depend a lot on the hotel and when things don't work out right with them, the convention gets the blame. I told him I understood.

I did find out that the hotel's bookings were severely down and that they are going to be laying off a sizable portion of the staff. That explained a lot of the pissy-ness I had felt. Outside the hotel, the heat hit you like a brick wall and everyone was sweating. The big deal was that year, the humidity was up around 40 percent, and no one was used to it and became the main topic of the news.

The outdoor staff asked me where I was from and if the humidity is making the news there, "No, in Baltimore they don't start talking humidity until it's about 100 degrees out and the humidity is over 90 percent."

The shuttle picked me up, and I was looking forward at relaxing in the departure terminal, but I had about six hours to wait and they wouldn't permit me to check in until two hours before the flight, which meant no food there!

About every half hour to forty five minutes, I would try to find a seat and work on my poem about the racial incitement and condemnation of terrorists use of children. Also another about how I fancied myself the next great poet, and looking for the crowd, end up locked up and now fancy myself the Johnny Cash of poets. Then it was downstairs to the departure terminal for a smoke and back upstairs for the poetry.

Finally the ticket machine, spit out my boarding pass and I dropped of my luggage and in two hours, I was up in the air and heading to the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, where I not only enjoyed a couple of cigarettes in their indoor smoking areas, but picked up some food, which was fairly inexpensive compared to other airports.

It was a bitter-sweet sacrifice soaked affair of a poetry convention for me. I wasn't at all pleased with the thought of getting The Convention Woman in trouble and prayed to God that it wouldn't be the case and I had to laugh at my biggest irritation. It wasn't her, however she's my biggest disappointment to date. I wanted was to leave this life where one good diner could lead to a friendship without the bullshit, spectacles, or sour feelings. Perhaps I was the Diogenes for love, another good cause with woefully lacking volunteers.

The biggest irritation for me was, the Poetic Bermuda Triangle I seemed to get lost in every time I wanted to attend a symposium lecture. I know I could have told people I have to go, but to me the convention attendees, poems and stories were more important. I met many people who really touched me, but most of my fun was in the discussions about poetry.

With my financial crisis looming, there was no way I could take a vacation next year much less attend a poetry convention, so The Convention Woman would be free and clear to have her fun without fear of me. I was planning on attending the year after that, but decided to be there for the contest, concentrate on my performance and readings. I no longer had any desire to attend the convention's night entertainment or the banquet feeling this was for the best.

I don't think The Convention Woman realized that my path of feathers led to her and I swallowed all the convention's gobbledygook with the small glowing lightsticks and the talk of poetry and poets being the points of light in the universe; then the violation of that with the second one, where I didn't hold the lightstick up and toast, not only because of The Convention Woman, but the fact convention staff had lied to me.

I was happy to be headed home, and it was straight to work with little rest. I would borrow some money to get me by for the week, for both food and cigarettes. In my mind, I wiped my slate clean and couldn't wait to go back on the writing site and enjoy the friendships I had made there, not to mention the challenge of writing that I love.