It was the spring of 2020,
the plague had just arrived
at the exact moment Chrysanthemum 2020
had come off the press
and Koon and I were spitballing
about how to publicize it,
what with all the poetry readings
cancelled indefinitely
and the unlikelihood that
there was anything we could do
to make Goldfish Press
go viral on social media,
when I suddenly had an inspiration
and said “They should do an article
on you in Rain Taxi Review.
You’re way cooler and more interesting
than the garden-variety literary types
that they usually plug.”
Now, the only reason
such an ambitious scheme
even occurred to me was that
I had started to see the names
of some Pacific Northwest poets doing reviews,
and Paul Nelson actually had
a feature-length interview with Charles Potts published,
and I’m thinking
“What’s Paul Nelson got that I ain’t got?–
I’m a quasi-professional.”
Flash forward a couple months,
and I’m sending Koon the final draft to look over
before I send it to the editor, and Koon e-mails back
“What happened to the part about the China Doll?”
which was the story about when
Koon was a 7th-grader in Aberdeen and
working with his father and uncle in a restaurant
that was for all intents and purposes
a front for the local brothel.
“That’s a great, great story,” I replied.
“I love that story. The thing is,
I get the vibe off these Rain Taxi guys
that they might just be
a tad on the ‘uptight’ side,
and I don’t want to frighten them away.
We better save that one for Hollywood.”
So, the interview came out, and much water
has passed under the bridge since then
but years later my omission still remains
an irritant to my soul,
like the proverbial grain of sand in an oyster.
For I had censored the poet and
surely I was going to hell.
And what made me do it, forced me
to compromise myself forever
in the eyes of the Muses?
Was it fear of the morality police,
those self-appointed guardians
dwelling on both sides of the political fence,
those putrid descendants of the actual cops of 1968
busting the poet’s skull with nightsticks
be it in Chicago or Czechoslovakia?
And who do these cops report to but
THE ESTABLISHMENT
and its Tribunal of Literature
stacked with all the academics and careerists.
the politicians, propagandists, and poseurs,
each with their own little boxes and agendas
and all going on about truth and beauty
when the fact of the matter is these people
CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH–
the truth in ‘first thought, best thought’
the truth in the fishmonger’s curse
the truth in the stupidity of the child
the truth in the dark longing offered without excuse
the truth in the cheater’s luck and the loser’s hubris
the truth in congealed ketchup and pomegranates
out-of-season
the truth in dust mites and dental telepathy,
which is when intergalactic beings
communicate with us through our teeth
this truth in blissful Seroquel dreams spoilt
by grey dawn’s bleak chill
or
The Truth In Rented Rooms*
Anyhow, that’s my addendum–
better late than never, and
suitable for immediate insertion
in any still-existing issues of
Rain Taxi Review Fall 2020.
Oh, wait–
it was an online-only edition.
OK, here’s what you do–
print it out on a sheet of 8-1/2×11 cardstock,
slather the back with superglue,
and stick it on your computer screen.
There!
Now what the hell are you going to do?
Nothing for it but to turn off the machine
and walk out the door into town,
maybe even wending your way
to the Yummy House Bakery in the I-District,
because Seattle snobs be damned
Chinese bakery coffee is the best coffee in the world**
so get yourself a cup of that
and a little bag of egg tarts,
find a window seat,
produce a pen and scrap of paper
and look out at the street’s passing scene.
Because out there is life,
and life is poetry,
no matter what they try to tell you.
*(see what I did there?…)
**(next to AA coffee, but that’s another poem)
