I fucking love Word on the Street, and I don't care if that's lame.

WOTS is Sunday. I’m into WOTS. I understand it’s bad poetry to like things that happen in the sunshine, but I’m a fan. I love the vendors, I love the noise, even how hard the noise makes it to hear the readers. I love the feeling of the subway under my feet as I walk around Queen’s Park.

Really, you should go. Lots of poets. Well, not lots, but a few. I’m looking forward to buying more books than I could reasonably be expected to read, and reupping on my magazine subscriptions. Note: Stop trying to fool me, The Walrus, with your pleas for subscription renewal. I know the best deal you have is coming on Sunday, $20 cash for a year’s worth. And a fucking handbag. I see through your “biggest savings ever” promotion. I see through your lies.

Why are people down on this thing? Whenever I ask a writer friend if they’re going, I get eye rolling. Either eye rolling + “I’m not really into that” or eye rolling + “Yeah, they’re making me read”. They’re making you read? Are they making you spend your honorarium on a pint and a new pair of jeans, too? Tears for fucking Fears, kids! We should be into this! We should all be Yeatsian “smiling public [wo]men” together. Fuck your petty irony. This is the literary community’s version of Doors Open Toronto. So get dressed. Put on some sensible shoes, buy a six dollar lemonade, and smile like you’re fucking happy! There’s company coming!

It's the weekend and I want to colour.

This was too much profanity for a family event. I’m sorry. I got a guy in the post below this making dick jokes…

Explore posts in the same categories: Book Industry, Canadian Literature, Citizenship, Events, Poems in the Wider World