A few things can be said about the National Poetry Slam in Oakland, California. Namely, the host hotel was something out of a horror movie; and we had one of the better rooms. I hear tale of a mass exodus of poets on the second day, but many lingered after hours around the “rooftop pool” (it was on the second floor patio area, and was empty, save for a very small mouse), which made for lovely and unexpected socializing with poets from all over. And, okay, I’ve lived in worse places, so I survived a week at the Jack London Inn (not to be confused with the Inn at Jack London; I hear that one was the better hotel!)… with the help of poet friends and alcohol.

I’m kidding, of course! Mostly.
(All I’ll say here is that there’s a fun poem about hockey to be written, once I…