The poets at the Carnegie Library loved the word "cocoon."
They had that distinctive, even-metered, cool-headed poet's cadence-- low and slow to savor detail.
They were polite and nostalgic, confessional but clever.
They were sophisticated but homely: that last girl said "washrag."
They probably use forks and knives to eat pizza.
In a little more than a week I will be publicly performing my writing and am trying to exorcise the "This American Life" intonation from my reading voice.
I've been practicing the classic tongue twisters:
Unique New York.
Red Leather Yellow Leather.
Gunner says to recite Ludacris raps as often as possible. If I can hear my stupid voice, just turn up the volume.
Danny Mac says I should scream at least once.