I

I saw the best mind of my generation destroyed by madness, starving vegetarian fussy, dragging himself down Dubuque to Peyton's at dawn looking for Tylenol PM,

Who cowered unshaven in his tightie-whities, burning post-it note novel outlines in wastebaskets, listening to Aimee Phan and Julia Fierro through the wall,

Who talked rapidly in workshop, leaning forward with two fingers pressed to his temple,

Who howled on his knees at aloof agents in Dey House and was dragged off by Connie, waving diminutive genitals and elephantine manuscripts,

Ah, Paul, you are not published and I am not published—but you ran through the icy streets of Iowa City with nasal snuff and a brandy snifter, and you match me shot for shot when we drink whiskey, although I outweigh you by 100 pounds.

II

What place of wainscoting bashed open his skull and ate up Paul's metameat?

Workshop! Where Ethan mooed of Mad Cow until Paul ate tofu!

Workshop! Where Vu flipped him the bird repeatedly in Chris Offutt's class and was only once busted for it!

Workshop! Whose name is Frank!

Workshop! Where we moan for Steve Patterson's rum cake, and drink Bloody Marys with Tangeman and Emmons!

Epiphanies! Space Breaks! Critiques! Present Tense First Person Omniscient!

Meaning! Sense! Clarity!

III

Paul Kerschen! We are with you in Iowa

where it will be very fucking cold in about a month

We are with you at Workshop

where we're all writers on the same dreadful typewriter

We're with you on-line

where you posted a new story by Beth Wetmore today at owl dash farm dot com and where, in the never-ending darkness of night, you diligently search for high-quality porn

Paul! Now we are with you, at the Mill

where you will read us a well-crafted narrative

Writers, Poets, Civilians: Paul Kerschen.