In The House Of Dead Skin On The Planet Purgatoria - Notes Elegiac Written During A Searing Illness Comments

for Josef - tightrope walker, dancer, eye glancer where I once and forever fell continually onto soft landings. My demands are over. I find you now in clover beds behind the Metropolitan, Temple of Dendor overlooking our search for the rare four-leaved still-common flower. You are uncommon always to me. I am the grateful commoner once supplicant at your heart's many chambered door. I am content enough.


Also, this piece is dedicated to Cafe Orlin, that down the alley place where for 35 years I long sat allowed my solitude and soups beside books and notebooks stacked, my sereptitious longing glances at the servers and chefs, the scrap-and-crumb-removers whose dark eyes lit fires and fueled at least a million words and imaginings (how much the breaking heart can bear astounds and resounds through the bearer forever) . Orlin has recently closed its doors for good or, rather, to go with some imagery in the text below, has folded its tent that daily featured the myriad circus performers of the East Village and Manhattan and the world...this place, one stepped down from the street to enter it, is where I once wrote my millionth epitaph:
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