Makes sense.

After forty minutes, Brautigan said goodbye and sat down. Nobody moved. The crowd stared at Brautigan. Brautigan stared at the crowd. Both laughed. After it was clear that no one was going anywhere, Brautigan sat down to get good and smashed while some of his friends read poems (his and theirs). Brautigan came back to the mike every now and then to lead the festivities. The same poem was read by about twenty people for an experiment in sound, and five or six distinct poems, not twenty, was the result.

The mike was opened to anyone who wanted to use it. Magazine-rejected poems, N. Y. Times articles, and Richard Daley anecdotes followed one after the other. It was a psychedelic Ted Mack Amatcur Hour. Farce reached its peak when a bearded guy in khaki stepped up and dead-panned in down-home Okie, "Ah'm new heah, an'ah ain't nevah seen so many people befoah. These nice folks done tol'me ah could read a pome, an'ah shorely do 'preciate it." A pause. I assured my friend that yes, he was for real. He continued. "Wow. I always did want to read my poetry on stage. Particularly at Harvard, since I go to B. U." Brautigan crupted in laughter and passed him the wine.

Someone else came to the mike holding something to his mouth. Great raunchy harmonica blues came over the speakers instead of words, and everyone stomped and clapped and danced in excited surprise.

Eventually everyone on stage was too tired or drunk to read or play, and we emptied out of the hall. The cold was refreshing after the body heat and smoke of indoors. We strolled through the Yard, talking about Brautigan and hoping to be things that we aren't now.