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.
