the altar boy appearance long gone, he ran off from the photo appointment to stand in the store and watch the Giants he stopped writing. known as a genius to his peers, his books never sold. some say because he was too good; most said the other things. his criticism was brilliant in its rancour and decisiveness; he was more of a bitch than a bard, his poetry was more fawning and delicate. as a critic he was a good surgeon, as a poet he was stalled in a stale, pale whimsy; at any rate he stopped writing each. Somehow they did get a photo one of the last photos of him Sitting on a stone bench in needle park hewn into an oblong glance of mortification. He died at 47 of a heart attack, face down on the track having drunk in the same bar as Dylan Thomas, the white horse tavern, where the latest boys offered in vain white horses, seeking that sane flash of light; lost to spondees and dactyls against nature, insights of the grievous breath.
I'm glad they were here, all the fuckups: Hemingway, Van Gogh, Celine, Kerouac, F. Dos, and Rilke, Pascal, Artaud, Li Po, Buckley, D. H. Lawrence, John, &c. It makes getting through a night like this So much easier, you know. It's like borrowing them to hold you, Through to morning, or until, You find a footing in this slime pit. Those great monsters. who also failed. I can feel them in this room now. Along with this empty bottle, And the smeared silver, And the lighter that don't work. And the thousand dollar wrist watch Turned over to its left side, The second hand thin and moving, In the lamplight of Jacob's Room.