Red

I. The Poet's Introduction/Conclusion

"You know those wrinkles
That old people get
On their hands?
I have those---on my heart."

His machine gun fingers
Fire just as rapidly as the
Neurons in his brain.
He eats some chips
And turns off his laptop.
There is company downstairs
And he has been anticipating
His old friend.

II. In Good Company

The poet descends, and is greeted:
"You have a lonely heart, [name]."

"Yeah, I guess that's true."

"But you know I'm madly in love with you."

"Of course, man."

"Then you must also know
That you one of funnest
People I have ever met---
In my life."

"Ha ha! I'm flattered."

"I would never flatter you
On purpose. I only tell you
The truth as I see it."

"Man---"
(Shoulders are gripped with firm glances.)
"---You want anything to drink?"

III. Confines

"Your laptop's up."

"Yeah."

"You working on something?"

"Yeah."

"Can I read it?"

"Go ahead."

IV. After

"Wow. . . That was powerful, man.
Fucking depressing, but powerful.
Where did you come up with that?"

"I don't know---Depressing?"

"Yeah, but in a good way.
I really fucking felt everything you were saying."

"Thanks, man."

"No, I mean it. You remember what I said?
'I would never flatter you on purpose."

"I know, man, I know."

"What was that one about?"

"Just. . . her."

"I see."

Silence.

"Sorry if it made you depressed, too."

"No, man! I mean---it did---but in a good way, like I said. Everything you write---I can feel it, Like. . . You make the reader, at least you made ME, feel exactly what I think you felt. And, granted, a lot of your shit Is depressing and lonely, but that's your style, and I fucking love that. It's like: some people would look at your poetry and say: all of his poetry is red, lonely. I look at your poetry and tell those people: Yeah, but look! This one is crimson! And this one is pink! And this one is magenta! Don't you fucking see?!"

"Yeah. . . Wow, man. Thanks."