-Corso Requiem-

1.

Gregory Corso hated requiems or so he said

during an intimate evening recital somewhere

in New York City, sometime in the mid-1960s.

I enjoy reading Corso.

"Don't Shoot The Warthog" alone is worth
the price of admission, which means––
the cost of the volume "Gasoline" from Amazon.com.

And I confess to writing my share of requiems;

the solemn song for the dead;

            the verse for the faithful departed;
                        the anguished plea for the repose of the soul.

2.
From my temporary perch

shared among the living, annuals all–– and
from what I've gleaned through the experience,
I'm suggesting that Corso might be on to something,

in that the ghosts of the dead might prefer to be left alone;

released from their forced participation of the requiem.

But the requiem

won’t leave the dead to themselves.

The requiem

keeps the names of the dead

at the mouth of the song.

Corso did admit to writing a requiem;

that, for departed Charlie Bird Parker,

the jazz alto saxophone player,

and further, Corso read his requiem for the great sax-man

to the gathering on that bone-cold, Manhattan night.

3.
Interestingly, after the reading he couldn't help
but interject an invented critique of praise by the reed-
smooth musician Corso romanticized would've cooly
proclaimed: "Man, I dig it"–– had Parker been alive to hear
his requiem read by Corso in the flesh.

4.

But after reading the "Requiem For Bird Parker" 
while sitting in the big, green naugahyde La-Z-Boy
in front of the television during a foamy Budweiser commercial
with the Red Sox and Tigers knotted at three in the top of the eighth,

I gotta say,–– man, I dug it, too.