September 29, 2018

Morning was given over to poetry. Then downtown to perform for Pride. The day was glorious, and the performance not so painful as it might have been. We couldn’t be heard. We can never be heard. Tenors in the front row with the mics against their mouths can be heard. I did hear a recording of my solo, and I have a shocking big voice. The plaza was full of happy people in extravagant costume. I complain at the prospect of it, but the thing itself is sweet and good. Bought the best lemonade that there ever was in the world. Tried to buy a parking sticker at the hotel, but the man gave it to me free.

Home to gardening, and now, in darkness, back to poetry again. Tried to put together a book of travel poems, except that it will not cohere. My Irish poems are song-like, simple, unlike my other work. Not only that, they name the names of lovers, something I had forgotten, so long has it been since I looked at them. I was a different man in Ireland. That’s what I wanted.