Thursday, October 4, 2007


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"David Shapiro is one of our greatest poets. Finally we have a perfect volume of new and selected work--pages filled with his indelible music, imagined landscapes, and unsettlingly exquisite dreams." --Jim Jarmusch

Dead Man was a favorite discussion piece for me and my wife's late great! grandfather Mike Carey. Another one--one that wasn't Jarmusch's--was the flick based on Kipling's "The Man Who be King" with Connery and Caine. Mike was a large man, tough, a gravel voice. In his day he was someone you wouldn't want to f---- with over a debatable poker bet. But he was also a literary man who swept through mountains of paper with his eyes, and earned the trust of children and small animals, a tenderness that can't be faked.

Pure magik! We'd talk for hours, usually with a baseball game on tv inching toward completion in the background.

And Mike taught me great words like "pigsticker" and "smoking a lefty" and "hootch." Shit you just can't fake on paper or in crowds. Those times were wonderful.

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Somehow this post began as a friendly reminder for a poetry reading. Somehow it turned out differently.

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