(1997-2005)
For near a
full decade (1997-2005), a short season of merrymaking, the money ran through
Mr. Chick Even’ Fingers, like water running out of a wide opened valve. He
owned six apartment houses, one being a building. He purchased large parcels of
groceries, and delicacies, rare and old books, limited edition prints signed by
Dali, and Picasso, went to the theatre, to see “Oliver,” and other musicals.
Traveled from one country to another monthly; in his trousers and coat pockets
he carried a roll of one-hundred dollar bills. His wrist, fingers and neck
bulged with silver and gold nuggets, trinkets, rings.
“Take it easy,” his good and young wife
said, smiling at his eagerness, she tried to keep up with him—; everyday he
drew up bills and this and that! He marshaled his books up and down their
shelves, checking out pricelists, making out receipts and figuring out interest
on loans—having more than willing borrowers.
When he could do no more because of
health problems—he sat down behind his computer and thought deeply, this
season, like all seasons in a person’s life, had come to an end; that is to
say, the season of making money for the pleasure of making money, had come to
an end, lest his health worsen. The pot of gold was to turned into enamel—but
nothing remained unfinished, a new part
to his life was to begin, it would be writing, something he started long ago,
at the age of twelve-years old he had written his first poem, by seventeen, he
had written twenty-one poems. In-between, some trying years, he had written and
published three prior books: 1981, 1982, and 1985.
How foolish his aim had been! He
thought, to have tried to build a breakwater as a dam against the tides of
life—because of his illness, by rules of money; useless, unless enjoyed, and
once dead, forevermore useless. Thus, jostle, and fiercely he would write and
read the next eleven years, ten-hours a day, write some thirty-books, fifteen
of poetry. He saw clearly with a little isolation and travel he had sought to
approach this bridge.
He felt that he was hardly of the blood
with the world around him, as he moved heart and soul out of Minnesota
to Peru
By day and by night he wrote, moved
among the distorted images in the Andes of Peru, even sought out the other
world, even things through the winding darkness of sleep, when he grabbed the
lecherous cunning of demonic eyes and also those with eyes bright with brutish
joy.
“As a poet—and perhaps writer,” he said,
“one more often than not, has to return to one’s most ancient roots, those of a
wanderer.” And so he had.
#935 (6-30-2012)
