I recently read
that Brautigan's last manuscipt
had small pieces
of his brain matter
stuck to the paper
which got there
after he blew his brains out,
and today
after I had written a poem,
I had an insight
into the mind
of Brautigan.
It made me cry.
Brautigan was a poet
who wrote tender, funny,
light poetry
which I always thought
had something
underneath it
which was deep and profound.
I found out
that a poet like Bruatigan
or me
had a deep
despair, anguish, depression,
suffering, and pain
which lay underneath
this light, funny poetry.
When he died,
I bought
as many books by him
as I could find
and laid them
on a table
and lit a candle.