pichon64
Not read nor write
I went to another poetry reading. 7 pm said the bookshop window.
I arrived three minutes early with my wife. He was in front of the bookshop, talking with the owner. The poet is Uruguayan, but lives and works and get prizes in Mexico since he ran from our 1973-1984 military dictatorship. He's good, he's really good. He rarely came down here, so I brought three books hoping for a signing. 'Of course, not problem with that' said the beautiful brunette behind the counter. She didn't care I bought them elsewhere.
We sat at the first row. Twenty chairs and only three of us. The owner and the brunette checked the sound, lighted some incense, and covered the book shelves with some white gauze. 5 minutes past 7 pm.
A musician I know arrived. He sat in row two. Then, a female University student arrived. Young, sexy. She also sat in row two. 10 minutes past 7 pm.
The poet was then smoking and chatting at the sidewalk with the owner. 'You're a genius', 'Oh, get out of here, you're the real genius; surviving in this country with a bookshop', 'Hey, come on, Eduardo' (Ooops, I slip his first name, -sorry Mr. M*l*n-) 15 minutes past 7 pm.
My wife knows me very well. She tried to talk to me, tried to distract me, tried to hurry time for me. But I know her very well too. I finally thought: 'I'm not waiting for poetry: I'm waiting for a prick and wasting time I could spend with this woman'. 30 minutes past 7 pm.
'Let's get out of here' I said loud enough for the other two people waiting. Her face turned red but she followed me. The musician and the student looked at each other. 25 minutes to 8 pm.
When the bookshop owner saw us leaving, he shouted 'They're leaving! Eddy, they're leaving!' The poet looked at me for the first time and instantly saw the three books I was carrying. He tried to get into the bookshop, but my face was enough for him to step back and cleared the entrance. 50% of his audience were leaving.
We walked home. The sun was still there, blinding drivers going downtown.
Poets write poetry. Readers read them. Or not. Anything else is unnecessary.
I arrived three minutes early with my wife. He was in front of the bookshop, talking with the owner. The poet is Uruguayan, but lives and works and get prizes in Mexico since he ran from our 1973-1984 military dictatorship. He's good, he's really good. He rarely came down here, so I brought three books hoping for a signing. 'Of course, not problem with that' said the beautiful brunette behind the counter. She didn't care I bought them elsewhere.
We sat at the first row. Twenty chairs and only three of us. The owner and the brunette checked the sound, lighted some incense, and covered the book shelves with some white gauze. 5 minutes past 7 pm.
A musician I know arrived. He sat in row two. Then, a female University student arrived. Young, sexy. She also sat in row two. 10 minutes past 7 pm.
The poet was then smoking and chatting at the sidewalk with the owner. 'You're a genius', 'Oh, get out of here, you're the real genius; surviving in this country with a bookshop', 'Hey, come on, Eduardo' (Ooops, I slip his first name, -sorry Mr. M*l*n-) 15 minutes past 7 pm.
My wife knows me very well. She tried to talk to me, tried to distract me, tried to hurry time for me. But I know her very well too. I finally thought: 'I'm not waiting for poetry: I'm waiting for a prick and wasting time I could spend with this woman'. 30 minutes past 7 pm.
'Let's get out of here' I said loud enough for the other two people waiting. Her face turned red but she followed me. The musician and the student looked at each other. 25 minutes to 8 pm.
When the bookshop owner saw us leaving, he shouted 'They're leaving! Eddy, they're leaving!' The poet looked at me for the first time and instantly saw the three books I was carrying. He tried to get into the bookshop, but my face was enough for him to step back and cleared the entrance. 50% of his audience were leaving.
We walked home. The sun was still there, blinding drivers going downtown.
Poets write poetry. Readers read them. Or not. Anything else is unnecessary.
