A reading at Kenneth Rexroth's bookstore,
Union Street in San Francisco, 1971.
He was incoherently drunk, slurred his poems,
insulted the host, insulted the audience,
hit on the awestricken hippie girls,
delivered every kind of obnoxious possible.
Fortunately, I had read his poems
and arrived prepared to witness his act.
I'd thought his poems were overrated,
I found his persona to be spot on.
At the reception, I drank a beer beside him.
He glanced up, called me a *****
and said he ought to kick my ***.
Three weeks back for Vietnam,
I laughed directly into his face.
He turned onto another potential victim.
Instead of some street smart poet,
I saw him as just the flip side
of the New York pretentiousness
he professed to despise.
But everybody loved the clown.
Entire younger generations still do.
Still, I'm sticking to my first impressions.
Only toddlers beg to be worshiped.
Sometimes it feels good to be the odd man out.
~mce
I realize this won't be popular, but it's a true story and my honest reaction. The man wrote some good poems and could turn a phrase, but - to me - his poetry is mostly long, tedious, repetitious personal narratives comprised of woe is me, aren't I a bad-*** ramblings. I think he is easily the most overrated poet of his generation.
Postscript: I was amazed and delighted on the positive response to this. I did not expect it. I'm so happy to see how many people still think for themselves.
As for the hate messages, you are entitled to your opinions, but attacking me as a person and a poet does nothing to further your argument. I'm just not that important.