REQUIESCAT FOR A SOUL MAN

One day we took the city
bus from Santa Cruz,
up the coast to Davenport.

We brought along a gallon
of red wine.

Jack knew some woman who
lived on a cliff
overlooking the ocean.

She made these life-size
porcelain pig heads.

She let us in her studio
and there were all these
tables with pig heads
on them.

Ferlinghetti was there.

I was getting pretty
buzzed.

Jack was giving Ferlinghetti
shit for not publishing him.

At some point, Ferlinghetti
left.

Jack would always tell the
story about pissing on the
shoe of the publisher of
Grove Press at some ritzy
party in N. Y. C.,
back when Jack was still
young and good looking.

That's why Grove Press
never would publish
him, he'd say.

We went outside to go piss
off of the cliff.

I told Jack, piss on my
shoe, asshole, that way
I can say Jack Micheline
pissed on my shoe.

I started backing him up
towards the edge of
the cliff.

He pushed me away,
making that wry face
of his.

I kept it up.

"O. K., you fucking
prick...", he said.

Jack Micheline
pissed on my shoe.