Poem for Jack Spicer
It's the start of baseball season, and I am thinking again as I do every year in early April now that I live in California where afternoon is a blue span to languidly cross of those long ones you used to sort of sleep through getting drunk on many beers, lying next to your radio on a little square of grass in the sun, listening half to the game and half to the Pacific water gently slapping the concrete barrier of the man-made cove. I have heard it and it sounds like conversations among not there people I can't quite hear. But you could. And later you would try to remember what they said and transcribe it on your black typewriter in your sad, horrible room. When I read your poems about suicide and psychoanalysis I feel very lucky and ashamed to be alive at all. Everyone has been talking lately about radiation, iodine, and wind, and you are in your grave, far from the water. I know I don't care about you at all but when I look at your photograph, your round head tilted up so you are staring down at everyone, I remember how much you hated your body. Today I will go down by the water where you used to sit and think I do not hate my body even though I often do. When I die please write he tried on whatever stone you choose.
Copyright © 2010 by Matthew Zapruder. Used with permission of the author.