Some Poetry

Gencho invited me to a poetry reading on Tuesday. I don't know how he got the idea that I was super into poetry, but I'm not.
Nevertheless, despite not feeling great, I got myself up and out and -- in the baggiest outfit I think I have -- looking for a bunch of American and French poets.
Don't know how, but I managed to get pretty lost for roughly 30 minutes before I even got to the club the reading was at. Stopped and asked a bunch of local bartenders, who flirted with me before giving me the answer I wanted.
Got to the reading, and it was just as I thought it'd be. It was in a cave, so it was darkly lit (oh, the ambience...). I walk into the basement to find a bunch of people lounging on the floor and scattered chairs to listen to this woman silhouetted in the corner reading poetry. Some was French, some was English.
I didn't feel like sitting down, so I stayed in the hallway just next to the reading and listened. Gencho tried to get me into the room, but I refused.
I do like poetry. I think that those can write good poetry are marvelously intelligent. But I think that some people into poetry use it as a form of mental masturbation and really are taking themselves too seriously or deeply.
The woman was writing a passionate letter to Henry Ford. Oh, alright.
The last guy wrote only in French. I liked him the best. His were humorous yet provokative. One was about how different groups of people count to 15, another was about the different ways of thinking (or not thinking to think, or thinking to not think...).
I left early, much to Gencho's dismay.