|An hour later, having been discovered by Marla, they were escorted to
their reading, onstage in a very large auditorium classroom, dilated and
They were to read from the hypertext and then from the Anthology. Mike
was joining them for the reading, apparently, although none of them
knew what was going on. They were sitting in front of a laptop on a
folding card table onstage bathed in halogen stage lights. Marla asked
them if they were alright and they didn't answer. The crimson curtain
cranked open and the four of them gazed out at 1000 Eastern students
with their notebooks out, ready to take notes on the Unknown.
The academics were searching for their first word when Mike blurted
out, "Do I get college credit for helping teach?" The poor guy was working
on his first 30 hours of course credit and being a 40-some out of work
blue collar worker he thought he should at least be helping his buzzed-out
potential professors to soothe the crowd. Suddenly William said, "Did
everyone sign the sheet at the door?"
"I think the whole sheet ended up in the punch" said Dirk.
"I don't know if... we should..." attempted William, but failed.
"I think..." Scott tried.
"Wait!" exclaimed Dirk, incredulous, "are we here, are we actually
"I don't know" admitted Mike.
"I do." said Scott. But he wouldn't tell us.
"Okay, uh, maybe we should... give a reading..."
"No. Not tonight. Let's do something different. Like Dance."
"That would be..."
"Very, I mean, difficult."
"Okay. Let's start."
"Okay: any questions?"
"Yes: I've been browsing you guys' Newspoetry website on the Internet,
and I'm curious. Why is there no poem for March 27th?"
"You lost a poem man."
"Well..." Suddenly, Mike started fumbling in the pockets of his blue
denim workshirt. He extracted a carefully folded sheet of paper. When
it was flattened out on the dais, he held it up, where unfortunately
the audience could see that each of the four corners had been carefully
"That's all it says at the top, the Lost Poem. I guess we'll have to
write it still."
"You mean me, or... I mean, my name is Dirk, right? Wait, I think it
says my name on my driver's license. But, wait, my license is in my
wallet. Which is in my pants. That's too confusing I can't get into
that right now."
Whoever you are, give us a poem. About news."
Bombs, here in OK City And there in Somalia, Iraq, the
"Thanks Dirk, if that's your real name."
And now Brought to you By Coca-Cola and CIA cocaine, Is your latest
It's good for business And good for you
Just keep the taxes flowing
Don't mind where they're going
Brought to you By Chiquita and Pabst Blue Ribbon, A beer for serious
President Clinton Don't forget to Lock the door On your way out.