JACK SPICER

He turned to me in the bar at the bar he turned to me & said he asked me do they he said take a lot of drugs in Vancouver or was it do you.

It threw me like they say off but boy did I know who he was.

He walkt thru the room with two others in a light light gray unpresst summer weight suit with curling lapels as if it had come from the bottom of the Charles River wrapt around him & nobody knew who he was, they were all Canadian university professors gathered here to drink the liquor provided by the Ryerson Press.

That was a month before he died, the Giants were still in first place & they stayed there most of the summer but finally finisht second.

All the literary feuding did not stop it was not over. Everyone went home to the story of Jack’s death. His story was nowhere near my story, they were all over America. You aint heard the half of it.

Change the sucking with a little sucking, act one of white wines, all together, worry with wounds.

His hair was one. His skin was one. His eyes were one by one worried. His forehead was one. His time running out down south was one & he went south. Farther south it began. That was one, where. It was there, that was the trouble, it was there.    


(George Bowering in Unmuzzled OX 10, 1975)