Nathan Pollack’s head is stuck in his own belly-button as a fourteen year-old raconteur/troubadour/swain, an old beatnik poet who never sold a line so he got a day job as a people doctor (not smart enough to be a veterinarian).  Even though he has read pretty well since the third grade he never learned to write well, so you get a gold star if you can listen to him without fainting.  He has read poems from an early age in coffee houses in his native Oklahoma, and when the sheriff ran him out, up and down the East coast wandering from school to school.  He has been reading in Denver for the past fifty years or so, especially at Bread and Butter evenings, Muddy’s Java Café, Faces, Café Euphrates, the Black Pearl, and recently at The Corner Beet and the Mercury Café (I thought I’d name those since only the Beet and the Merc still exist--I thought you might want a list of dead coffee houses).