A Bar, a Beer, a Notebook and a Pen
Me, Self-Portrait Back in my early poetry days, at the very beginning in the summer of '97, I wrote the majority of my poems sitting at the shadowy bar in Botanica, a pint of Brooklyn Brown always at hand as my pen scribbled furiously in my notebook. Tonight, a series of unexpected events set in motion by Roger's bailing on the Mets game and me unable to find a taker for the extra ticket, found me watching the game at Coppersmith's, a pint of Magic Hat #9 always at hand as my pen scribbled furiously in my notebook. It's been a long time since I've written…