Somehow this thinking about Allen Ginsberg on his birthday, remembering a few conversations and a couple readings with him etc. somehow twisted and looped into a memory of Kirby Doyle. Not.a household name like Ginsberg, he was a late modernist, a member of the first stripe of the San Francisco Renaissance and associated with the Beats. One evening, sometime in 82 or so, maybe, he called to say hed been stuck on an onramp outside of town all day, coming down from Reno, trying to hitch a ride to San Francisco. He said no one would pick him up, hed only had a biscuit to eat all day, and could I help him out. I went and got him, brought him home for a shower and a meal, a drink or two or more and good conversation that went late into the night. He played classical music on the piano (I didnt know he could), and talked a lot about his endless poem, She, and he and I and Theresa read a few poems for each other. The next morning, I got him a ticket for the Dog back to the City and dropped him at the station. We promised to keep in better touch, but didnt. I have a song called Down to the Scraps that has the lines Kirby Doyle had a biscuit and a bottle of gin, got stranded up in Reno in the fall. Kept a nickel in each for the payphone, but there was nobody left a call. It takes a small liberty (as is the nature of the whole song) but the gist is right, except, thankfully, he did have someone to call. How our poets live sometimes. Often. Look him up if youve a mind to. You might like his work.
Posted on: Wed, 04 Jun 2014 06:37:14 +0000
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