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and remembered, vaguely, hearing once before but by word of mouth, a rumor passed... He had not been sick in '90 when we met I thought (briefly only, he read, we spoke), though in (what?) '92 he had seemed shrunk somehow, but still bigger than himself with words bursting, pushing, out from his small frame, so I dismissed the rumor, the teller was not sure. Now I am certain that I knew at least the second time (again he read, we spoke) and remembered instead his textured voice, his rhythms like sex and fight and blood, his absolute calm, his clear definition. But I know for certain now, he died while I slept on a cliff in Portugal behind a bar, overlooking the beach. I saw that Kathy Acker died about the time I ran with my mom in the Race for the Cure, a survivor diagnosed a year ago that day. I wonder if Ms. Acker knew in (also?) '92 when I heard her speak, shook her hand and not so secretly (perhaps) lusted after her sharp tongue, her (s)punk, her decon/reconstructive mind. She had been intimate with the dead. press on my grief, still widow fresh, & open it in a rush of tears. I don't know which death I am crying for my Patrick, or Essex, or Kathy or something dead in me. I glide into a Carolyn Forche page, hungrily sink my teeth into her poems, finding bread in each, her grandma's blood sausage, Maya's olives and almonds, the Colonel's green mangoes. that day in Prague police raided the squat. The Czech kids hurried us out back with our American Passports and "international conspiracy." We had to find a place to sleep that night and missed the reading. become important--that it would matter, the fact of their being alive while I consume their words. |
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Jim Davis-Rosenthal |
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