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An Emotional Memoir of Jack Spicer
ISBN 978-1-949966-68-8 178 pages $16.00
Been thirsty, long time between drinks, since first getting blitzed and waking up underneath Robin Blaser’s table The Collected Books Of Jack Spicer (prized volume from grad school, dream of writing books of serial poetry not individual poem) for my pillow, woke up asking for spirits but nursing instead secreted sips of small press church wine, until the Great Binge of ’98, bar-hopping where Spicer once drank hourless days all brilliantly lit bottles on display whole shelves of biography/collected poems/lectures left me spinning mazurkas never once spilling a drop. Through it all, Spicer the man waited wisely inside Helen Adam’s blurry b/w snapshot. Until this portrait, the “emotional memoir,” invited me to drink at Jack Spicer’s table, where he may be overheard to say: “This is where the poem happens. Here.”
Larry Kearney was Born in Brooklyn, New York. He moved to San Francisco in ’64 and became involved with the group of poets centered around North Beach and generally and inaccurately described as the San Francisco Renaissance—Spicer, MacInnis, Duerden, Duncan, Brautigan, Stanley, Blaser, Kyger, Meltzer, Hirschman et al. His closest friends in poetry were Jack Spicer and Richard Duerden, and Spicer’s insistence on being willing to, and capable of, saying what the poem wants to say when it wants to say it, endures for him as a working definition—poetry as the whole of the real—the seen and unseen, heard and unheard—the voices of the haunted living and the unsuccessfully dead. He currently lives in Amsterdam, Netherlands, and Mouron-sur-Yonne, France.