I stopped to pick up Emily in Ventnor City, who asked, “Something to drink?” and just as I was articulating a no, I’m fine, her not-quite-two-year old son rushed over to me with a Budweiser. Hank handed me the bottle, which I set aside on the table; he talked to me about the planets. I think the last time I came to visit, Hank had mistaken the glowing ball on top of the new Revel casino for a bankrupt moon. (But maybe we all mistook it for that.)

Em & I wended through the streets of Ventnor to Dante Hall in Atlantic City for the first open mic/reading there hosted by the newly-formed South Jersey Poets Collective. My new friend Aubrey really is the galvanizing, inspirational force behind the group, which plans to meet once a month on the fourth Wednesday. (Make a note in your diaries. Program a recurring Google alert.)

Coming soon: A zine-swap! *squeal*
Also: brownies!

The open mic was already in session when we slipped in. After we both read, Winters was called up. His poetry never disappoints.

Winters invokes the muses.