WHITE HORSE TAVERN – 567 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK NY 10014
the altar boy appearance long gone,
he ran off from the photo appointment
to stand in the store and watch the
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,
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
He died at 47
of a heart attack,
face down on the track
having drunk in the same bar as
the white horse tavern,
where the latest boys
offered in vain
seeking that sane
flash of light;
lost to spondees and dactyls
insights of the
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.