|He dared, the muses said|
by Julian X  /  poetry  /  3 Jul 2007
He sat in Barnes & Noble, writing in every book,
unbothered on the upholstered chair,
sipping his Starbucks;
perhaps he was high on adrenaline,
but I like to think it automatic writing.
He made it through FICTION / LITERATURE,
row by day,
day by row,
then moved on to POETRY.
They caught him halfway done w/ COMPUTERS,
as if anyone cared anymore.
He'd already made his mark, literally,
across the ages.
But the police couldn't appreciate the irony
of this silent man, double chin, salt and pepper hair.
I wonder if they charged him for all the books in the store
or if he'd have begun again, the stock refreshed.
I thought he might be a professor,
compulsively grading, little letters and qualifying lines
in crosses and horizons, his own fires ebbed.
But all the town had his manuscripts, the most famous,
unconventional, experimental writer I knew.
I saw him in town, later, wondered if he
was out on bail, on probation, or if
they'd let him go, wanting him senile,
hoping he'd die soon.
I thought of DuChamp
and asked for his autograph.
He coughed and walked away,
no time for his fans.
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