saturday, may 1
may day, beltane, &c.
i wander the stacks and compile a bibliography
weldon kees was born just a little south of here
he graduated from this school,
published things in its literary quarterly
i read articles on his status as the
'unacknowledged greatest poet of his generation'
the cult of personality surrounding a guy who
wrote words and song bleak as hell,
probably ended himself off the golden gate bridge,
was for years available almost nowhere besides
an out of print paperback edition
from the university of nebraska press
somebody has had the collection of his letters checked out
for three months
i would probably have some right to be bothered by this
if i hadn't been monopolizing two thirds of the library's
entire rexroth holdings all semester long
i notice that my shaggy-haired, slightly spaced out
but engagingly enthusiastic prof
for the history of rock
once wrote music to some of kees's poems
the ones about a guy named robinson
'The mirror from Mexico, stuck to the wall,
Reflects nothing at all. The glass is black.
Robinson alone provides the image Robinsonian.'
someone else wrote a short story
on the premise that robinson was actually a vampire
this essay says it doesn't quite
'transcend the limitations of its genre'.
neither, when you get right down to it,
does anything that uses the words
'transcend' and 'genre' in any combination.