The Fire Next Time

The Fire Next Time

A recent, gentle voice from the beyond was apparently all the motivation I needed to convince myself it's time to light the raku kiln and fire four plaques I have had perched on top of the propane heating stove for half a year. At least they should be dry by now. With my limited experience and resources the results of any firing I attempt (no two the same) is problematic. I cringe when I tally the many times I have slowly raised the temperature in the kiln trying to avoid cracking, slumping, or other damage only to hear a muffled (or sharp) explosion as the piece or pieces thundered into a miriad shards. But, time is wasting, so the next time daytime temperatures rise above freezing there will be a warm yellow-orange glow emanating from the covered lean-to next to the garden shed, either that or another series of disappointing sounds, like that of four hands clapping.

LeRoi Jones

LeRoi (Amiri Baraka) Jones

On such a winter day the sad news came. Amiri Baraka - who will always be LeRoi Jones to me, had died. And what of the silence following his death? Who can explain that? May you Rest In Peace my friend, wherever your ashes are scattered, or your black bones interred. Perhaps you're there with Corso, who you may or may not have liked, or Kaufman, are you tossing poems back and forth with Bob? I'm sure Bremser is there, sleeping beneath his 'tit-topped slatted stack'. And if you find Frank O'Hara, tell him 'Hi'. but then move on.

Seems the world has grown a little bit smaller yet again. Such a pity. Ginsberg and Kerouac are dozing, serene for once, not having to be who they are, and Ted Jones, ah, who among us remembers his poetry, or that he named one of his daughters after Dali?

And yes, LeRoi Jones:

"I (also) wish some weird looking animal

would come along."

Who's left to us who survive? Ferlinghetti, Snyder?