Paul Violi is dead
and I did not know who he was an hour ago.
I was looking for Tony Towle
who I have not read, a lot, who was hidden.
But I found Paul, who was not
which might be sad
or not, depending on who you are,
and what you want.
And yesterday I said to Eileen Myles
“I’m afraid I’m stuck here
raising cats and and growing herbs”
when she asked me to buy a book from her in Bergen.
Because now that I am old
money clearly does not cloud the issue of value
and I write odes to Allen
the gay balding mensch who has become the voice of God
and I yearn for that immortality, perhaps,
so I can play an accordion and sing “Kral Majales”.
“I shall become an artist so I have an excuse for being poor”
I said to someone, and she replied she thought
I was a “Master Poet”. A joke
because I am not reading my work in Bergen with Eileen
And what would be the point because poets
don’t make money my friend Bill told
me. And who reads, anyways,
unless you are young and can afford a class
“And who does that save?”
I say, who have become the jaded Fox
with sour grapes in his plate.
Because Paul Violi is dead
and perhaps he isn’t bothered by this fact
one way or the other, now.
But, for some reason, it bothers me.