to the heckler at my first poetry reading, 1994

Daniel Nester

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

Genre: 
Author Bio: 

Daniel Nester is the author most recently of Harsh Realm: My 1990s, a poetry collection from Indolent Books. Other books include Shader and God Save My Queen. His work has appeared in New York Times, Buzzfeed, The Atlantic, The American Poetry Review, The Best American Poetry, Bennington Review, Court Green, and other places. He is the editor of Pine Hills Review.

Issue: 
62