John Aiello

 

FOR GREGORY CORSO

"We never met. You didn't know me. And yet, upon your death, two sacred rivers cross, two writers talk; and yet, upon your death, I write these words for thee—"

"He felt the cold hand of death upon his shoulder. And then—he went."

"And here now (no) more glory (sewed) up in the stink (of) the dead and the dying"

The phone rang
At one o'clock
In the afternoon;
A cold
Back bone voice
Across the veils
Of the
Other side—

"Did you know
Greg Corso
Died last week?'

"NO! Where? How?"

"Don't know.
There was barely
A mention
In Newsweek
(they)
Didn't write much
(Just)
That he
Was 70
(they)
Didn't write much"

"That doesn't
Surprise me
(big)
Business hated
The Beats"—

Corso's dead.
End of
The road
(fading)
With the mouths
Of the sun.
All the poets
Are dying.
All the great
And holy lyricists
(dead)
Like the wind
In summer.
Who's going
To write
Corso's obituary?
With Ginsberg
And Burroughs
And Kerouac
(gone)
Into swollen books
Of ash
(who)
Knew him
Well enough
To write
The honor
of his memory
(ever)
Lasting in
Hungry knives
Of blood?

A poet's soul
(fragile)
As an ice cube
(melting)
Into spirit hunters
And mist
(the)
Invisible ring
(of)
A bell
(and)
Then you're gone.
A poet's soul
(unknown)
Coffin roll
(buried)
In half
Buried graves
(who)
Hears the
Sacred whisper
Of these words
(must)
Bury the bones
(now)
Put your
Knives down
(live)
This life
Of echoes

Corso was
The 'road'
(literal)
and breathless passage
Of name
Into material object
(suffering)
Blue angel
(child)
with a thousand
New born eyes
(this)
Is what
Made him
A poet
(builder)
Of bridges
With sound
(horror)
In the night
(moon)
Child God
(waif)
Hungry alone
(dead)
In heaven—
(gone);

I heard
the news today:

Gregory Corso's
Passed away.
Another poet, fallen;
Old Man Corso,
Just 70
(died)
At the exact
Same age
As my father
(beautiful)
Angels now
Are falling
Like ripe leaves
From the trees
(in)
Heaven now
(dead)
And gone forever…

1-31-2001

© by John Aiello