Page 55 - Jack Foley | The true litterateur
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                        for Michael McClure (October 20, 1932-May 4, 2020)

                  The prince is dead.
                  Defender of whales.
                  It didn't seem possible.
                  The great one
                  Who read his work at
                  The most famous of all
                  San Francisco readings                                           Jack Foley
                  Six Gallery, 1955.                           In his case
                  The one who voiced his poems                 (No, he did not have Coronavirus!)
                  To the marvelous melodies                    But this wonderful man
                  Of Ray Manzarek,                             Is gone from us.
                  From whom Janis Joplin                       His Angel weeps.

                  Stole a song,                                Her name is Amy
                  The one who told me,                         And she will forever be
                  "People who wear black                       His love, his partner
                  Are in mourning for themselves."             Though there was another
                  The king is dead.                            Who loved him too.
                  The one who survived                         Dear Angel, whose wings
                  Everything                                   Will have to fly in a different way
                  And lived to sing of it,                     To find him now.
                  The one who spoke                            I loved them both
                  Chaucer in the original                      And learned from them.
                  So that people might know                    She survives to build a world
                  Where our language came from.                Around herself in which
                  The king, the prince, the poet               Michael forever is
                  Who rose from Wichita                        And isn't
                  And embodied San Francisco                   While she goes on.
                  Who called to the birds near his home        May she fly, as she always has,
                  Who answered.                                With sweet, compassionate dignity.

                  "We were making," he told me,                May her delicate hands
                  "The myth of ourselves."                     Build figures (embodiments) that
                  He survived so much                          live forever
                  It seemed likely                             As Michael's words
                  That Death would make an exception           Will live forever.

                                                               There is a world
                                                               That does not die.
                                                               The Muses
                                                               Weep.                      Litterateur
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