Li-Young at the shrine of words

I saw Li-Young Lee last night
whose words title this page
    I traveled to the Seattle Center
    to pay homage to an inspiration
         When I met him four years ago he was
          just as lofty and etherially minded as his work
                       Even last night he was ever the poet
                       at once parrotting Buber in his poems
                       even his interview staged for the audience benefit
                       was also only I and Thou...
                       while hoarse and complaining that
                       he'd eaten peanuts                 he never eats peanuts
                                                                 he's allergic to peanuts
                       and they were good
I see my own struggle
the way I drift in and out of my poetic mind
way-laid by       TV       Radio        Music        e-mail and other genres
Li-Young is enlightened
                      or stuck
                                     existing solely within his poetic perspective
Is the perfect artist the perfect human?
Can the perfect human even perceive art?
Who am I?