The Death of Several Authors
Nobody told me that Salinger
had died. It happened on a
thursday when I was probably
busy doing nothing and making
excuses to do nothing.
I asked someone today if they
knew how it happened. The only
accurate line I could draw was
that he simply ceased to be. I’m
not next of kin but I wish I was told.
As I get older, wiser, I meet more
of these poets. My friends. My
mentors. As I doggy-paddle through
endless endless endless poems
it all seems a little futile.
The cataclysmic nature of
discovering that someone is both
your idol and dead within minutes
shocks. Death is a part of the process.
No more literature from them.
Come to think of it no-one told
me that Hunter Thompson had
died. I know that it was before my
time but if my parents were honest
christian folk I’d have known.
Burroughs, Kerouac, Selby Jr. Even
Ginsberg. Before my eyes, before
I become part of their poetry my
teachers are dead. I’m afraid that if
I read more Hisok. His time will come.
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