 Hello and welcome everyone. Welcome to this month's poem jam. I'm John Smalley, a librarian with the General Collections and Humanities Center here at the main library of San Francisco. While we're waiting for a couple more people to join us, I want to take a moment to acknowledge our community and to tell you about a couple upcoming events. On behalf of the public library, we'd like to welcome you to the unceded ancestral homeland of the Ramatrish Aloni, who are the original inhabitants of the San Francisco Bay Area. As the original inhabitants and in accordance with their traditions, the Ramatrish have never ceded, lost nor forgotten their responsibilities as caretakers of this place. As guests, we who live in their traditional homeland recognize that we benefit from living and working on their traditional territory. We wish to pair our respects by acknowledging the ancestors, elders, and relatives of the Ramatrish and by affirming their sovereign rights as First Peoples. I should mention that tonight's program is being filmed for our archives and promotional materials. It will be put up on the library's YouTube channel in about a week. If you do not wish to be photographed, let me or one of our staff in the back know. The Poem Jam series happens the second Thursday of each month, and it is curated by the former Poet Lawet of San Francisco, Kim Shuck. As some of you know, our host Kim Shuck is also an artist, and there will be an exhibit of her contemporary glass beadwork. This exhibit will open here in the library. The exhibit will open on July 22nd on the sixth floor. Please come to the opening party on Thursday, August 3rd at 5.30. That exhibit is called Translations From Here, and once again the opening is Thursday, August 3rd, 5.30, 6th floor. You can learn more about upcoming poetry readings, programs, and exhibits by picking up a flyer from the table over there or one of the library newsletters. Please also help yourself to coffee, cookies, and a limited Poem Jam button. Or you can consult our website, sfpl.org, and consult the events calendar there. So that ends my announcements about programs. I now want to turn the microphone over to Kim Shuck, who will introduce tonight's readers. Please give a warm welcome to Kim Shuck. It's been a huge pleasure recently to really pretty much focus on celebrating new books that are out, particularly new books featuring local readers and local small presses. But this one's special because this series was run by one of my very favorite local poets, and I just love listening to Ricardo Reed. And also my partner loves Lorena Bakery and would be there all the time, if humanly possible. Doug should really write a review because he, every time we read in the mission, he's always stopping through to get some pastry. I'm going to call Ricardo up to talk about the series and everything else, but I'm just really particularly delighted with this book. You should buy it if you don't have it. But everybody, please welcome Ricardo Pevez. All right. Thank you. Thank you for coming out. Thank you for inviting us. Thank you for opening the space, Kim. Thank you, San Francisco Public Library, for providing spaces for the community together as well. Yeah, panacea poets, if you get a chance, the displays here. And it was a poetry series that took place in the mission. It was held at Lorena Bakery. We have Louie right here from the Gutierrez family we're presenting. And it was an informal space, I guess, in the sense that it was a nontraditional place for having poetry, literature, essayists would come by. And, you know, it comes from the idea of bringing the arts to public spaces, bringing poetry, writing to the people, right? And it was a beautiful, beautiful series. And, you know, when I talk to elders and they say, hey, you know what? There was this amazing reading way back when, but there wasn't a camera. There wasn't a voice recorder. So in essence, it didn't happen, right? So it kind of got us to thinking like, hey, you know what? We need a document. We need a document that this took place, that we're here, that, you know, it may not be, you know, some hardcore academic thing, but it was never meant to be. It's meant to be of the people, right? And this project came to fruition with Pochino Press, Pochino Press out of Oakland. And if you haven't checked into what Pochino Press has done, what they're doing as well, you're missing out. So I'd like to invite Monica Sarasua from Pochino Press to come on up and share a little more with you about the press and other projects. So we started the press in 2013. I just texted my brother because I was like, it's been a long time. I don't even know how long it's been. And basically it's a family micro press, like Ricardo said, based out of Oakland. It's myself, my brother, my sister-in-law. At the time she was not my sister-in-law. And it just came down to there's so many, like I think Ricardo is a perfect example of like the why we started Pochino Press is that we were, I'm a writer. My brother's a writer. They're both photographers. And we just would do these collaborative projects with people. And so we were like, let's just call it something because we're meeting all these great people. We're doing all this great work, like let's call it something. My brother and I are mixed. We're half Taiwanese and half fourth generation Mexican American. So that's where the name came from. Pocho, of course, being the derogatory term in some people's eyes for a family like ours has been here a long time. And then Chino for our Asian site. And so we became Pochino Press. And again, that was 2013, which, you know, that's like lifetimes ago, but still so fortunate to be able to come together. I mean, so when Ricardo approached me, I was like, I have this idea for a book. And it wasn't really the documentation piece that got me, like even though that is important. It's when he was talking about the panaderia and the coffee and the pan dulce. And just he just painted this really beautiful picture of people coming in and anyone being able to come in. And I just imagine a poet who is just writing furiously from all the deepest part of their heart and just not wanting to show it to the world because it's hard and it's scary and it can be painful. And so when he was telling me about this and I just imagine someone with the poem in their pocket being like, you know what, I'm going to go up there. I'm going to share it. I'm going to read it. And they do it. And so thanks to Ricardo for it because it's that's why the press is still around like people come up and they present and they bring that spirit. We're like, OK, OK, we'll keep the press going. We don't make any money. We lose money. It's a lot of work. But because of Ricardo and then by extension, all the poets who were involved like it kind of keeps that spirit going. So I'm going to pass it back to Kim and we're going to hear some poetry. That's really good to hear. I ended up becoming the poet laureate of San Francisco because I ran an open mic and and all the people who had been at the open mic nominated me. And that's how I ended up becoming the poet laureate of San Francisco. I'm the very least famous poet laureate of the city that's ever been and probably ever will be. But it's because I came really from and particularly from the mission. So that makes my heart happy to hear your your press story. I'm going to invite Nicole Hernandez, who is an incredible educator and somebody that I've known and worked with for some time. And she's going to read a couple poems for you. Welcome, Nicole. I want to dedicate my reading today to my cousins. Robert Ryan and La Ocana, Jose Perez Ocana, who speaks Spanish much better than I do. Even though Robert's an American. Okay, so let's see. So this one's rose petals on Good Friday. While cities teeter on the edge of forever, acknowledge garden and roses gold in bloom. Yes, last week has passed like March, February, January have passed. Even these letters as they appear are in the past. Stay alive and cleaning. One drop can save or kill unrealistic fears mutate us into machinery. We must make our own beginnings and endings. That fluffy rose, the palest of pinks almost white. She is shy and alone face down into dirt. You cannot bear to pick her. You hold her head up for a photograph wonder if she would rather be in a vase. But she does not believe in time. She has no nostalgia for last features. Pluck the pedals she offers grind them into paste. Love and light will fill you. You will fill light and love. Light and you will fill love. So I'm going to break a rule that Quincy troop told me 20 years ago, which is I'm talking in between my poems. Is that okay? So these are all poems I wrote during the pandemic and it was pretty scary. And my mom disclosed to me something that I had never heard before. That she was one of the kids that got the first bad polio vaccine. And I had never heard that before. I didn't know about the cutter catastrophe. I didn't know about that. And she said, you're going to be okay. Oh, I still got COVID. But it really forced me to look at what's going on and how scary this is and go in and this is a poem about a piece of giant rose quartz that the poet Thea Matthews gave me on my birthday in 2018. And everybody in here knows Thea. She's awesome. So she had given me that rose quartz and I just found myself going to it. So poem in rose quartz. Remember how earth breathes beneath us and does not sleep. Listen to what our spines know in dreams and stillness. Those red spiky globules have no place in our bodies. Imagine them flying from us limp armed with sour grapes. Damn, lady. You run on caffeine and anxiety anyway. I don't want anything here. Heat water and lemon, sip and purify. Remember the light that surrounds us. Imagine glowing white orbs. Let poems and stories become our protection in healing. Remember how rose quartz fits into fist and heart. Hold it over blistered knuckles. Remember to receive love is to give love. The sun drips honey over each day. Tonight is the supermoon, the pink moon. A giant rose quartz for flowers in spring. It still is still spring. A cherry blossom tree stands in the lowl courtyard alone like haiku of ten blossoms divided by seven branches. The earth heals in pause and so will we. On that poem I had written for my students. And this last one hopefully will make you laugh. My barbecue, I started writing from the perspective of objects in my garden. And so this is what my barbecue had to say. Barbecue seeks companionship. I've been alone all winter. The birds still sing their songs of spring. But spring and summer aren't looking so promising for barbecues or parties. I'm lonely, but not a victim. I have a spider web and a spider on my handle. I call her Charlotte. She's a dainty little thing and keeps tickling me. The roses are coming back into bloom. Across the yard the daffodils hang their heads down and look kind of wilted. But the daisies are kicking it in electric pinks and purples. The queen of England last week said we need light in Easter. A shredded half empty bag of charcoal has endured entirely too much underneath my legs. I hope that virus finds some communion and holy sacred marriage soon with antibodies. I'm an extrovert at heart. Kissing can produce 80 billion antibodies. I don't care if the meat is vegan or free range as long as it is chemical free and juicy. I want someone to warm peach lices on my grill. I want to raise my karma and my spiritual energy. Charlotte is still here, at least for now. Thank you. Thank you, Nicole. Our next poet, I'm not even sure when we met anymore. But we've been reading together and I've been inviting her to things for quite some time now. And she's a regular attendee at online reading that I host. And I love her work and it's always welcome. Please welcome Norma to the microphone. Thank you. Thank you so much, Ricardo, for including me in the Panduce poets. It's really an honor and Pochino Press, my favorite books, many of them. So the first poem I'm going to read, Oakland Crossroads was another bilingual poetry reading series in Oakland, run by Susie Huerta. And this poem arrived the morning after one of those readings. Oakland Crossroads for Susie Huerta. Last night again, the border crossed our complicated sentences, rhymed prickly pairs with Michigan cherries, inserted the corpses of young girls into a dream we had of each other pacing in the dark at dawn, and as the sun sinks and flails against your chest from the inside, tries not to drown in the great river that would separate us, but that, por cierto, carries us through. The landscape neither of us recognizes alone that sandy bed we both lie down in. And thanks. And I'm going to read a poem that's in the anthology, but I'm going to start with the introduction to it, which is prose. I can't remember now whether the prose came before the poem. I think it didn't. I think I wrote the poem and then the introduction. It's called This Year as Usual, and it's from Spring of 2013. As a secular Jew, I often find myself irritated by religiosity, at the same time as I'm grateful for the cultural and historical specificity I carry with me. I have joined a synagogue whose members are engaged politically as well as spiritually. Even so, when I sit down to a Seder, the Jewish Spring holidays, elaborate dinner service of remembering bondage and liberation, with all its promised land rhetoric, I find myself nauseated by how this ritualized history tastelessly conspires to forget the people we found there. The continuing travesty being visited upon Palestinians in their land today by my contemporaries who call themselves Jews. And the fact that I am sitting down to table on a lony land where my gold-digging predecessors murdered the people, and eventually into this very day where the invaders who laid the ground for my sojourn here destroyed the land, air, and water, the milk and honey that the earth has so generously produced. At the same time, the immigration justice work my congregation engages in, including participating in a monthly interfaith vigil at a nearby county detention center where randomly arrested dark-skinned immigrants are held for possible deportation is informed by our Jewish heritage, which includes a passion for justice and the beauty of the Seder's admonishment to welcome strangers and feed them. This year as usual during Passover, I attended a Seder where there were people I didn't know. There was also, as there frequently is, someone, an adult non-Jew who did not know the story of the holiday or the rituals and meanings of the meal. I was seated next to her and began whispering in her ear a translation of the symbolic foods and words. Soon, the others around the table took up the challenge of explaining. We argued and interpreted and enthusiastically corrected one another throughout the meal. In this way, we fulfilled the central commandment obligation of the holiday to tell the story of liberation in a way that is relevant to the current and coming generations. The ritual includes teaching our children to ask important questions. The stories we told this year as we got to know each other included the family immigration stories of some survivors of the European genocide of the middle years of the last century, how they got to America, how they suffered before and after their arrival, what the welcome was like or lack of welcome, what they did to survive. This poem, which arrived early the next morning, is a composite of survival stories. It is a meditation on the damage done to our families and communities by oppression and by silence. Today, oppression in the United States is manifest in national and local policies of incarceration as a response to every societal crisis, including the crisis of poverty and homelessness, including addiction, including violence and mental suffering, as well as the invented crisis of immigration. All of these problems are created or exacerbated by our unjust social structures and processes and the ideologies that flow from them and that in turn see imprisonment of the most vulnerable members of society as a solution to every serious dilemma we face. This poem is about family and community and the healing, liberating power of storytelling. It tells us that no healing takes place without story. The circle we form to raise our voices in front of the stark gray walls of the West County Detention Center every first Saturday of the month in support of unjustly detained immigrants holds us together. Telling our stories and hearing one another's holding each other in this manner is the way we build the country we want to live in, traveling light. We sit down again at the family table to tell and retell the story of how we got here. The grandfather who might have died in the camps, how he hung on to the dark thread that furnished him and us with a living, later how he held that against us and against himself. For a pattern maker alone on the prairie just fills everything. The mother stunned by this grief, the silence and what she learned in her American kitchen about raising children above the fray of garments in a closed factory. An old world sister sheltered us, saying us lullabies when we should have been waking up. A husband who knew how to look back in English from afar. He tried to comfort us in that shiny cloak with furniture that store bought without memory, without a way to heal our children. Our children need to know what enslavement means, how traveling light can be a burden too heavy to carry with us or a weight that tests our shoulders, strengthens us, teaches us. Stories to hold the newcomer in us, the stranger, the one who brings us new tales even now to laugh together at what may bind us and shed new light on an old song. To sing together beyond pogrom, matanza, field and sweatshop, fábrica, rising from the grave and crossing over, moving, asking questions of each other down among the living, here and whole. Okay. Do I have time for a couple more? Or not? One more. Okay. I think I'll do this brand new one from last week. Three haiku for the first supermoon 2023. A full moon beckons the ocean cannot resist and we cannot swim. 14,000 miles closer to the earth than usual, the moon commands us. We bow and sing praise in a faltering voice before going under. Thank you. Thank you so much as usual. Now I just want to go right. I've always sort of maintained that the right people show up at the reading, that we end up with people to read who are the correct people. And that means sometimes that some of the expected people don't show up and it means sometimes that some unexpected people come and we have the pleasure of them. I have never heard this next poet, but I imagine good things. Estella, would you like to come up and read a poem, please? The shorties. Okay. I wanted to be here to help support the project. I've been in mourning. I've had some deaths. So I haven't done poetry in a while. But I want to get back to life. I'm going to read a, see if I can find them. I wrote Gavrona virus. Let's see. Where are you? If it's in here. Well, this is writing. Is it in here? Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I'll read the one about the virus. It's called Gavrona virus. I was terrified like everybody else because you don't know what in that. You know, and you're thinking like the black death and it's like, oh, it was scary. Okay. There's a brutal bully. Gavrona virus on the loose, wreaking havoc around globe. I went out to get groceries. Felt I was braving the land of the walking dead. Coronavirus, the invisible walker I hope to avoid. Now I lay low. Groceries delivered instead to keep the blues at bay. I bake cookies, brownies, apple pie, artisan Brad. Lucky, I co rant with my son who works from home fortunate enough to earn bigger bucks than I ever did. We live in a zip code full of concern confirmed COVID cases. I wasn't born lucky. I offered daily prayer to Mother Earth, Father Sky, the four sacred corners, Sage, Cedar, Sweetgrass, sustains my inner peace during this unnerving, damned pandemic. This one's called writing a storm, which I wrote for a friend. We're both Jim Morrison. We love Jim Morrison. And so I wrote this for her. And it's about, you know, having courage and moving forward and pushing through. So I thought that fit well with the theme of, you know, being in the virus going on. So it starts out with a Jim Morrison quote. Oh great creator of being grant us one more hour to perform our art and perfect our lives. This is writing the storm. I write alone, like a dog without a bone, like a blind cat. No real bliss, no, no realm of bliss this, but an endless night. A summer born. We four kicked it at the favored corner dive bar on 24th Street, throwing back beers for two of us like drunken sailors fill the air with boisterous laughter, pen and paper passed around the table. We all like, like a bohemian bunch, one by one crunch words to piece together and exquisite corpse. It rose to our delight on remarkable feet. I'm a romantic. Romantics take the hard road. The road not traveled by the rational. It's a hefty price, but fuck it. The beauty I on occasion encounter is worth it. I'll dance on fire till the music's over. Ride the storm like a goddamn boss until the end. Okay, what was the other one? Oh yeah, mongo, mongo. That's healing and they're healing. Oh here I go. Now this poem, because no matter what's going on, you have to remember that there's always beauty in the world, always. And joy, when you connect with nature especially, I mean there's always, always beauty. You have to look for it. You have to find it. And that's why this poem Mango is just about the joy of life, of being alive. Mango's messy, but delish. I sink a blade down to the bone, that big center stone. Nectar drips as I circle around vertical twice, horizontal once around the middle. Peel back the skin, triangle by triangle. Scrape my teeth across each piece, get every bit of luscious flesh. I slice a piece of sweet fibrous fruit, take a big bite. Syrup, sticky as blood, runs down my fingers, slips past my palm, drips into the dish. I slurp and chomp juice, trickles down my chin, munching down mango. An experience I relish. Thank you. Welcome back. Okay, so our next poet has a voice that I really, really love. And I'm just going to get out of his way and let him charm you with it. Tony. Thank you so much. Thank you, Monica, Ricardo, Kim, San Francisco Library. This is, here we go. Age of eight. At the age of eight, the police broke down our door with a battering ram and pointed guns at my daddy's face. They were wearing thick black bulletproof vests. These days they have the letters I see on them. I heard them talking to each other into their walkie-talkies. And over all the distortion and noise heard the words, Stand down, disengage. We've got the wrong address. I remember after that both my parents were a mess. Daddy used to say, son, many of us are used in the U.S., confused in the U.S., and told and taught we are less in the U.S. But that they will never confess. You know, I'll never forget that police man's face with that thick black bulletproof vest. Now let me get this off my chest. In this land of our country, I can't believe the things I see. So much police brutality. So much police brutality. Serve and protect, please don't beat me. Police in blue, I speak to thee. Serve and protect, please don't beat me. Thank you. This one's called I Want. I want, I want, I want. I want what I cannot have nor cannot see. I want the world and eternity. I want to run wild and be free. Don't want no one bothering me. I want a ticket on a jet-blue plane. Want to listen to break-up music without feeling pain. And want every human suffering from a mental health illness to please stop being called insane. I want to know how homelessness could exist in a rich-ass city like this. Or mostly every day like it's a second Christmas. I want back my old neighborhood. I want back my youth. I want to be angry. That's the truth. I want some justice. I want no lies. I want no funerals. I want no cries. I want all men to experience the blind. I want them to see that beauty's in the mind. I want all my memories. I want all my knowledge. I want to know why I can't afford college. I want to know who, what, where, why, and when, when the good life begins and the hood life ends. I want to know. Thank you. One more? A little? And I'll end with this one, and this is dedicated to all the panulisa poets in the house and poetry around the world. We are poets. Bandulse poets. We're in your neighborhood at open mics. We're not that hard to find. We'll massage your temples, touch your hearts and tantalize your mind. We are poets. We can take pretty words, put them in a poem and plant a mental seed or we can take shitty words when we're filled with rage. Put them on a page and make it bleed. We are poets. We can put words together, describing an aroma and make you think that page was scented. We are poets. The reason the exclamation point was invented. We write, recite and perform. We never, ever conform. It's the way we poets know, damn well, we were born. Pushed out performing and crying since birth our hearts already broken and torn. But we as poets, we can take pieces of broken words and turn them into spoken words and give a broken heart a fresh new start. Take a young child's broken dreams and mend them with spoken seams. We are poets. Blessed and filled with words, we create with words, relate with words, transform and relocate broken hearts with words. We are poets. We say things like five times five divided by pi equal the number of rainbow stars in the sky. And have you asked why? We are poets. It's simple mathematics times dramatics factored into a third eye and the answer in the back of your mind's book is even simpler. We are poets. Ay, ay, ay. Love making keyboard breaking erotic poets. We can make a pen, make love to paper and make it hum. Make words intoxicate your mind like a strong Puerto Rican rum. We are poets. Filled with laughter, tears, joy, imagination and patience. We speak at the open mic at presidential inaugurations. From our hearts the words flow through our tongues, mouths and lips those words magically know where to go and our heads the poets of the dead are awoken. We speak from our hearts with the voices of the broken. We are poets. This much we know. We give birth to words, touch mother earth through words and then open mics, open our mouths and pull out our hearts through words. We write, then rewrite, then double check the last rewrite because we know the last rewrite is the one that has to be right. We are poets. We share our breath with words and we will write and recite till our death with words because we are poets. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Read my poem out of this. Hill, tree, family, first lick of green sunrise over the excelsior back lighting the water tower. Hill, tree, family, early light crawling Eureka peak, sutro orange feet planted, look black in this light tank. Hill, practice walking stairs in my imagination. Mama Coyote from the canyon and I, we can tell the time by the sound of this underground creek even after these months. Hill, tree, family, she knows where her strength comes from. And I'm going to ask Ricardo to come up here and read. So the cover art is by Amanda Ayala and it features a paleta cart with a microphone and a blanket on top and when we were trying to come up with something to put the mic on like a podium or something, I think Mello, a buddy from the neighborhood was like, hey, try this. And it just worked. And I think a lot of it had to do with this idea of rascuachismo. You know, rascuachismo is like, just make it happen. You know, just do it. So, all right, I'll jump into I'll read 24, page 69. And it says street pallet bursts, scarlet mangoes, electric cookies, proud chrome rims, and emerald faica shade. In whirling mist, a pán dulce still life blooms. El tatuani de la 24 backs confections and taps sugar from citrus trays. His head restreams feathers that he is careful not to dip in coffee pots. El tatuani de la 24 yarns stories from comptels and cenote blues. A soulful accordion strolls by, Tejana tipped, visage obscured. A bajo sexto leans and croons in sweet segunda voz. Kaleidoscope alleys glow with FMLN brush streams and nocturnal spray can hiss strained by salivating speculators and camera clicks. Under a street lamp, my cousin pours a tolle in oddity to bow tight grins a delicacy to the initiated. Tacostán copal sizzles on obsidian comales as taquera hands fold corn into iridescent butterflies to nourish a 200 year old mission Dolores mural smothered behind Baroque altars. In morning mist, humpbacks exhale thunder. Dear Russell Marsh Tully. Otters glide across estuaries. Bay laurel leaves glimmer. Ramaytush land breathes still. All right, thank you. Sold my sacks. Woke to lights, scorching welds and walls. A plane blinked. A train boomed in the distance unheeded by the blue haze of day. Pete rocks reminisce. Riff clicks the switch. Soul from the reed and tap of pads on brass exasperated baritone breath. Sold my sacks this week. I can still feel the keys and levers shifting under my fingers, nodding to sunny bird McLean. How did we meet? Swinging fists in midnight mission streets if they'd only collide against the real to affirm this, this, this moment. Finding solace in murky back room bebop, surrogate brother love lifts a spirit from being forsaken by finite illusion from above to seek a love supreme. A dozen calls came in for the cell. How does one decide to let go of art? How does one relinquish an aspiration of the heart? Sold my sacks this week. Pete rocks reminisce. Riff clicks the switch. Levers shift eyelids close. Fingers twitch to McLean under tablecloths at red light, green light, sunlight, moonlight. Scorched walls stand, watch, wait for when heart meets the midnight train again. I'll do one more. Thanks again for the invitation. Thank you, SFPL. Kim shut. This is titled Bibles and Lotteries. There has been something in the air lately, something has been wafting about in the Frisco fog, bringing to mind memories of televangelists and beings gurgling in ceramic pots. Sandinistas and sidewalk preachers, along with the noblest of middle school activists, teachers have been involved in a rash of senseless acts of kindness. It's time to take down the Christmas lights and double the blankets, because things are going to get worse before they will get better, if we'd only want them to. El Caimán must be ready to strum the haranas and cuatros and rap anchijadas louder than ever once the winter passes, so we may ceremoniously welcome the spring in nocturnal fandangos. And in the sun's vernal rays we'll stare into each other's faces, dusty from the clear our feet. We'll breathe free from Bibles and bankrupt lotteries. Thank you. Thank you so much for being here. Thank you to the AV department, Mike and Kenny, back there. Thank you, John, from the library who helps me make this space available. I get thanked a lot from this microphone and I just want to say I keep posting these things because this, I find it healing too. You know, this is as much for me as it is for anybody else, if not more. And I really thank everybody who read and everybody who audienceed because that's also an act to engage in. I see a friend back there I haven't seen in a while and I need to go collect some hugs, but we got a little bit of time. We need to be out of here by half past, but we have a little bit of time to enjoy some Pandulce and say hello to people and just enjoy one another's company. Thank you again to everybody. Take care. Oh, and Doug wants to make a point, which is that we generally take a photo with all of the readers over there by the mural. And so let's do that. But again, thank you, Pandulce poets. Thank you. Pochaccino press. Get that right. My memory is getting really crummy and I'm not making any bones about that. It's just really bad. I keep, if people are laughing, but this is real, I keep forgetting the names of people I've known for years. It's terrible. Anyway, thank you. Let's have some sweet cake and each other's company.