Another Dead Poet

July 13th, 2010 - Tyler - permalink

Harvey Pekar died and sales of American Splendor went through the roof. I’m guessing, but I know it, the way I know you saw him as a character in a movie, or as a guest on Letterman, or you hadn’t heard of him at all.

We didn’t know him and if Crumb never met him, none of us would think we did.

Good for Harvey, getting to enjoy a few years of several strangers thinking they knew him and a bunch more, claiming his art, now that he’s good and dead.

Michelle told me about a poet I’d never heard of (because I’ve never heard of anyone). He was an art curator who wrote in his spare time, on napkins, and at typewriter stores.

Upon his first real taste of success, after he’d published a book or two, he took a trip to Fire Island. He had a few drinks and took a walk on the beach. A dune buggy rode over him in the darkness and killed one of the most brilliant writers of all time.

His editor went through his apartment. He found poems everywhere, on notepads, in pockets, and published them.

Today, Frank O’Hara is one of our most celebrated poets. His anthologies keep selling, poetry students study his work…and you’ve still probably never heard of him.

That will be me someday, when I take a bullet in the cab, get hit by a bus, or struck by lightning. They will read every post I’ve ever made, rifle through every notebook I’ve scribbled in, and piece together my novel.

That’s when I’ll be discovered, when they can sleep comfortably knowing it can never go to my head, or put food on the table.