to the heckler at my first poetry reading, 1994

and i can still remember // how you waited // until i finished // each // poem // to shout // YOU SUCK! // after each // last line // i peeked past // the spotlight // past the polite // applause from friends // i can still make out // your red hair // strands over flannel //  i can still piece together // a vision // of some // charles // bukowski // clone // which // in ’94 // would mean you were // any male poet // in philly // you waited // to shout // THAT POEM FUCKIN SUCKED! // and no one // put an end // to your act // no one // grabbed your arm // and i // gave up early // i resigned to sharing // the tin angel stage // with your yeungling clinks // your clean work boots // and i can still hear // your nasal voice // a voice that // crowd-surfed over the bar // after a poem // about miles davis // the day he died // you shouted // MILES DAVIS // WOULD’VE HATED // THAT POEM! // and ok // maybe you were right // mister heckler // i think // decades later //  maybe you // are some evil twin // all i know // years later // is i am not // the narrator // and i am not the speaker // if i ever was // what i am // is the bitter old man // and you // you are the bug-eyed // spliff-smoker // the one who went to // the pricey art college // downtown // and after that night // for weeks // maybe months // i needed to know // who you were // where you lived // so i could confront // my redheaded // heckler manchild // but it turns out // you were pals // with randall “tex” cobb // that’s right // the pro boxer // he’d moved to philly // and you // published his chapbook // of poems // you and tex // would get drunk // and watch spiderman movies // so even if i // faced you down // even if i // beat the heckler out of you // you’d sic the retired boxer // the raising arizona guy // on me // on the way back // from proofreading reports // or drinking beer at mcglinchey’s // he’d roll up // to my spruce street // efficiency // on a motorbike // smoking a stogie // and pitch grenades // at some bunny // and he’d break my nose // so // anyway // i’d forgotten you // for years // for decades // i pushed your face away // until // that is // the other day // when i started this poem // all i ever // had to do // look you up // and there you are // you and your // porcupine red hair // you and your // short guy gut // with photos // of chapbooks for sale // and darned if you didn’t // write a poem // in which // you namedrop tex // like some // stripmall // frank ohara // cruising the suburbs // and darned if your website // doesn’t say // you are // available for “lectures, // seminars // and // readings” // like my grandpop said // christ on a cracker // all i ever // had to do // was read my email // cos i’ll be damned // if you haven’t // sent poems // to little journals // i’ve edited // over the years // your poems are shitty // for whatever it’s worth // i won’t shout it out loud // but i would say here // they are pickled // in noblesse oblige // but mostly just // the oblige // part // and you // the shouty // self-promoter // with nothing to say // and more than // 70 // mutual // friends // on // facebook // and your ratty shirts // arranged just // so // oh you // the caliban // on my shoulder // art college // dropout // i get that // my debut // wasn’t that great // i mean // in philly // a poet // gets pounced on // every // day // but //

maybe the worst part // is that //
i remember // you // but you //
you don’t remember // me at all