We started this poetry reading four years ago and it's Friday night, six o'clock rolls to us again, and per usual it's only the “devotees” here. We figure everone’s poetically late. Go outside and let the parade in. At six-thirty we say no one’s showing up so as to not jinx ourselves.

This is how retrospect works: life makes pit stops for nostalgia even when you’re sixteen. This is the glass breaking in that silent movie, this is my childhood swing set, this is time travel, this is the small group of poets who met weekly in the same seat in the same diner reading their same favorite poems. Our anthologies were penned and stabbed with love, criticism, and cheeseburgers.*

*cheeseburgers
  Jasin now says, “I am far from 16, I'm 19 now...
          oh, and I hate cheeseburgers.”
  To which Bob replies with “Haiku for Jasin”:
          You were 16 when I met you
          There is no such thing as Time
          Get w/ the Cheeseburger Program

The summer of ‘99 hit us with choices. Continue? Are we getting anywhere? The reading nearly stayed the same. I don't think at first we wanted any different. But we grew... it was gradual, no biggie, but twelve people was a lot to us. It was when Ray said “I put up fliers” that I knew this could be something. Something that dealt with poetics as well as our private poetries. Something we craved without knowing it.

Our readings moved outdoors, to the side yard of a local library, lined with bushes and brights, patched with grass. It was serene, placid, and somehow turned into a veritable drug store. Kids would show up to find a party, score a bag, hang out and talk through the reading. So I just walked out, I quit, I turned my back on the best poets of this town.

A few more people are showing up now, it's nearing seven o'clock. Here is Mo, with her poetry that is unclassifiable. “Please protect me, America!” she reads, “because I feel I should not have to look over my shoulder.”

Here is Wendell, “I no longer possess the light / yet I bask in its warmth.” His devotion to words is a devotion to self-discovery. Wendell is one of the many poets who have come back thanking the group for breaking their writer’s block.

Laura reads her irreverent prose: “And three days later, Jesus arose from the dead. He walked among people so that with their eyes, they could see that He was eternity; and with their hands, they could feel that He was infinite.”

KK follows: “This is another goofy love poem about Mega-Man!” and we know already that this will be another classic.

Next is Josh. I know he's going to make someone cry tonight. Someone always cries. This is ‘99, more nostalgia.... I was nearing the last time I would walk down the steps. Ghost collared me, hissed, “Don't you dare walk out on this.” And then, something happened. “This is the only thing I have that I look forward to.” And then, Ghost cried harder.

I knew that summer could only get better. Poets came and went. Freestyle rappers and country singers showed their faces, but rarely came back a second time. We could feel the energy grow, but winter was on its way, and we were strict about not confining our spirits inside walls. The next summer would make or break us.

It's seven-fifteen. I do a count. The twenty-seven regulars are here, plus a few unfamiliar faces. Michael is one -- he says he read about us in the paper. This is John saying the Internet brought him here. They are welcomed completely. Newcomers are always safe here; their emotions are safe in the open here. This is the Knew Knights of the Round Table, a huge distorted shape that once was a circle. Still, no one can be at the head of it. This is important to us: no one feels higher or lower than anyone else, nobody wins, nobody loses. Only we all occasionally feel lost....

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