The writer sat at the bar
next to me, showing me his
script. Aliens, lots of them,
blowing people up, then
reconstructing them, just
for some alien fun. Aliens,
impregnating people. Aliens
discussing New Age philosophy.
He took another swig from
his sweating beer, then told
me about the theme park
they were discussing.
“There’ll be walls of poetry,
man, walls of it. Think
of it – Scott Holstad poetry
covering walls at the park.”
Reminded me of that time
in Phoenix when a young
writer told me he had
shown my poems to the
band, Ministry, who
now wanted to use my
work in their next album.
The writer asked if I’d drop
by his studio the next day
and then go to Savannah
with him. I gulped down
my drink and walked
out of the bar.