Ah, yes. Fame never got anyone
off the hook, it seems. Some poignant
evidence to be offered in McGuane.
There's a cutoff beyond which a certain
number of people know you exist for various
reasons, good or bad or with a notorious
indifference. Said Spicer:
My vocabulary did this to me. Meaning
what he was, near d**h in an alcoholic ward.
Crane or Cavafy. Alcohol as biography
more surely than serial poems. I doubt it.
We are drawn to where we end like water
for reasons of character, volume, gravity,
the sound we make in pa**ing/not all the sounds
we made in pa**ing in one place - a book.
Each day's momentum of voice carrying
backward and forward to the limits, beginning
and end. We drink to enchant our voices,
to heal them, to soothe with laughter, to glide
awhile. My words k**, k**ed, me, my lord. Yes.