is how after I write a poem about how much the poetry reading at the Asylum means to me, several people associated with the scene have posted something in the last couple of days about wanting to avoid a poetry reading at all costs.

I don’t think it’s cause and effect. I certainly understand a desire to avoid drama and pain; we all do.

I just can’t live without a dose now and again — more often than not; the recent issues with my health and Annie’s health that have kept me away from Sunday nights have been quite painful to me.

I miss you, regular Asylum nights; miss you all, miss the expensive coffee and the dingy walls, the furniture, the impossibly high ceilings, the weird sightlines, the once-upon-a-time ridiculous sound system that too frequently made going off mike a necessity, not an adaptation (this has changed, but I still miss the intimacy).

I miss what was. I miss what will not be again — the sense of excitement walking in, wondering what new things were in store.

I’m jaded now; been to too many readings in too many towns, read on too many stages to ever feel that excited again.

I’ve become a serious poet at the cost of my excitement at poetry.

Most of all, I miss you; the person who changed me, who made me excited as you changed yourself, who laughed or cried at the right moment.

I never recall your name, but you were there too…that was you, that night; the poet whose words I will forget the minute I die.

I’ll be back soon, I promise.

is how after I write a poem about how much the poetry reading at the Asylum means to me, several people associated with the scene have posted something in the last couple of days about wanting to avoid a poetry reading at all costs.

I don’t think it’s cause and effect. I certainly understand a desire to avoid drama and pain; we all do.

I just can’t live without a dose now and again — more often than not; the recent issues with my health and Annie’s health that have kept me away from Sunday nights have been quite painful to me.

I miss you, regular Asylum nights; miss you all, miss the expensive coffee and the dingy walls, the furniture, the impossibly high ceilings, the weird sightlines, the once-upon-a-time ridiculous sound system that too frequently made going off mike a necessity, not an adaptation (this has changed, but I still miss the intimacy).

I miss what was. I miss what will not be again — the sense of excitement walking in, wondering what new things were in store.

I’m jaded now; been to too many readings in too many towns, read on too many stages to ever feel that excited again.

I’ve become a serious poet at the cost of my excitement at poetry.

Most of all, I miss you; the person who changed me, who made me excited as you changed yourself, who laughed or cried at the right moment.

I never recall your name, but you were there too…that was you, that night; the poet whose words I will forget the minute I die.

I’ll be back soon, I promise.