In a dream I wrote a poem with the title "upon learning Bukowski once received a 'fan' letter smeared with feces."
I imagined Garrison Keillor reading it in his dull monotone to a roomful of horrified elderly Midwesterners.
This made me giggle like a 10-year-old thinking about boobies.
I debated the title, using shit instead of feces just so Keillor would say shit, but stuck with feces because feces is a funnier word.
In the dream I read this poem at the Bowery & it went over well, so I read it whenever I read at an open mic & people came up to me afterward and complimented me on the poem except the time I read it at a colon cancer benefit-- few found it appropriate.
In the dream I printed out a copy of the poem & carried it with me wherever I went, even to the weekly public executions in Central Park. An arsonist whose fires killed 3 families was hung & after his bowels evacuated I read the poem.
A black guy passing by called me one crazy white boy.
& then I woke up & wrote this feces.
