Well, hey. Y'know, I mean, come on. Isn't it obvious?

I guess we can stick this one in the "found art" file, sort of. This occurred one day in my college years, many many many years ago: I was thinking about an ex-lover, who had just walked by. While stuck in thought-- revery, fantasy, thrall, what-you-will-- I muttered something along the lines of "Yeah, I could go through all that Hell again." Doc Nagel, who was known merely as Chris in those days, being unaware of my mental, emotional, and spiritual state, retorted "Or you could just have a hot cup of tea." About a half hour later I broke down and wrote the thing. It is what it is, and, in the final analysis, that's what I like about it.

Doc Nagel has never heard this story.

One night during my years in the mountains, at a coffee-house poetry reading/poetry slam thing that had gone quite sour, when people were pulling out their "big gun" poems about how terribly screwed up they were and how much deeper their lusts and sexual fantasies were than anybody else's, it came my turn to read a piece. I approached the mic, recited this piece from memory, and recieved a standing ovation. For the next few moments, the room was enveloped in bliss. Then things returned to normal.