Joe-Jack

I was shocked to learn a couple of days ago that Jack Wiler is dead. I met him twice, at poetry events in the city, and both times enjoyed his reading very much. He read in the same way as he talked. The poems are of a piece with the life. He exterminated pests for a living. After he read my book I sent him, he asked if he could do anything for me. It was a generous gesture. That Facebook exchange took place less than a month ago. Jack was tall, and, though gaunt, looked strong. He was fifty-nine.

Death and birth. Joe Fritsch, whom I also met at Cornelia Street Cafe, has started a blog. He is twenty-one, and has just moved into the city. I wish I am twenty-one. His poems are already crafty and poignant. But more, I recognized in him my restless ambition to make something of myself, to reach for whatever is swifter, higher, stronger (Baron Pierre de Coubertin). Perhaps I am projecting. Perhaps all my relationships are always about me.

Shall I see Jack's death through Joe's eyes--sympathetic, engrossing but finally uncomprehending? Or shall I look at Joe as if I am dead Jack? What the fuck, Joe, would you want to start a blog for, when we are all going to die? Do I have a choice, whether to be Joe or Jack today? Or will the weather decide for me?

Comments

Anonymous said…
I am sure that Joe and Jack have their different virtues. I've just read "My Fucked up Heart". A brutal acceptance of brutish Death. I've just read "All for Writ" with its opening optimism for technology. Jack or Joe? I'd much rather have Jee! As a poet...
8:15 AM
Eric Norris said…
I agree. Be Jee. From what I can tell of the fellow, he's a pretty good guy.

If you are concerned about the effect of the weather today on your psychology, here is some advice I once received from an Umbrella vendor:

Chanson de la Pluie

I said, “No thanks,” to Noah,
While crossing 14th Street;
He seemed to be selling umbrellas
Out standing in the sleet.

Most passersby ignored him:
He wore a puffy coat,
A golden clover pendant,
And he coughed, to clear his throat:

Unbrellas, unbrellas, unbrellas!
Unbrellas! He coughed again.
Unbrellas, unbrellas, unbrellas!
Unbrellas beat the rain!
11:09 AM
j said…
Before life,
before death, before either of us, there is
ontology wanting its syllables
there is simply
Be.
9:41 PM
Jee Leong said…
Dear Eshun,
A shadow passed over me. Thanks for coming between the shadow and me.

Dear Eric,
I can just hear the umbrella seller's voice: UM-brel-la! UM-brel-la! The poem made me laugh.

Dear Joe,
Thanks for the syllables, especially the last one.
5:25 AM
Eric Norris said…
The funny thing about that umbrella seller, and what drew me to write a poem about him, was how he mispronounced the word.

I was feeling so wet and miserable that day. It was pure magic. Turned my world upside down.
8:28 AM
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