Snow. Just enough snow to scrape off my boots. Donning my black coat and watch cap, I trudge across Sixth Avenue like a faithful postman, delivering myself daily before the orange awning of Cafe ’Ino. As I labour yet again on variations of the poem I’m writing in memory of Roberto Bolaño, my morning sojourn lengthens well into the afternoon. I order Tuscan bean soup, brown bread with olive oil, and more black coffee. I count the lines of the envisioned 100-line poem, Hecatomb, now three lines shy. Ninety-seven clues but nothing solved, another cold-case poem.
From Patti Smith’s upcoming memoir. You may not care for her music, you may consider her a critics’ artist, you may think Horses is the most overrated album of all time, that’s completely irrelevant. However, if you don’t buy a copy of M Train – your soul just isn’t there.