| It's one of those shops
where you have to brush
dust off of the books before you take them
down. I'm here with a poet friend,
a minor member of the beats,
who searches for copies of his books
when the door crashes open
and a small man in a filthy down jacket
storms in. His thick black hair hangs
in great untended curls and he seems to stir
up a breeze, to leave a wake behind him
as he crosses the store.
My friend goes to greet him
but stops, his hand held up
as the man blows past him
to the poetry section,
picks out the books of Gregory Corso
and quickly, sloppily, signs them.
Walking back to the cash register,
he corners the owner, shoves his chin
in his face and says, "I made them
more valuable. You owe me fifty dollars."
The owner rests his palms on the counter.
"Now, Gregory, damn it, you know how
it goes. I couldn't get fifty bucks for the whole
poetry section. Here," he plucks a ten
from the register. "Double it. I need twenty."
Corso says. "I deserve twenty. I wrote
'Two Poets Hitchhiking,' 'Power,'
'Bomb,' 'Elegaic Feelings American.'
Forget that crap about Kerouac.
I'm the real king of the beats
and you're giving me ten bucks?"
He waits, then shakes his curls
as though throwing a curse
on the shop and the owner and leaves.
with the ten in his right hand.
"So that's Gregory Corso?" I say.
My friend has told me many stories
about his days running with Corso.
Now, he answers slowly,
as if the words burn his throat.
"All you're seeing is a minute
out of a long life. Too damn long
in a lot of ways. Remember that."
Later, in McSorley's, my friend
glances out the window for a long time,
as if looking for a friend
in the crowd that hustles past us.
"He could have at least said hello,"
he pours another beer from the pitcher
"I'd've given him the damn twenty."
|
