Reverie.BY MICHAEL QUATTRONE
The Formalists are here in tar-black neckwear; the Freebies, the Ranters, the Contemplators gather in the wet bar for Absinthe and Apollinaire. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow: three days of lectures at which to network. If I could watch it from home on a network, I would. Now there's a terrific invention— The Poetry Channel: "The Versed of Tomorrow Today!" An exposé on Elizabethan neckwear, and Who Wants to Marry Apollinaire? Not much of a market, from what I gather. Usually I come to these meetings together with my poetry patron, whose net worth exceeds that of your average millionaire, but she just married Jesus in a convent on the outskirts of Mamaroneck. Where that is, who the hell knows? Ask me tomorrow and I'll probably say, "Ask me tomorrow." Maybe I should go to Mamaroneck to get her, but nuns are such creatures of habit: that neckwear, those habits. It's a whole religious network, I swear. They probably go to Christ conventions, and I bet you can watch them appall on the air. I'd like to see CNN take a poll on air to end the suspense, or at least to narrow it down: who throws a better convention, nuns or poets? If not, we could gather our own data to post on the Net, work out a contest (or some kind of picnic) where nuns and poets would neck, wear each other's clothing, pray to Apollo, Nair each other's genitals. Stockings (fishnet) work well for me, too. I know—let's do it tomorrow! That way my patron won't think I forgot her. All Holy Sisters in the convent: shun your vows to marry Christ (né Queer)! All Horny Goatherds to Apollo: ne'er fear! This is Divine Intervention at work!
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