Thursday, December 06, 2007


Suits at the riot shields biting
scrambling in their own conservative dilemma
no heads or dreads no
hippy merry prankster types
just disorder in the court
while wives and babes look on
astounded at the violence
the stunned bald faces
the law above the law.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007



they ve finally reduced you
to a bumper sticker flashing


Sunday, December 02, 2007


Robert Zoschke wrote this letter to Emma Russell, Press Officer for the Arts Council, after the London International Poetry and Song Festival in early November. He has kindly agreed to share it with BEATNIK readers. I have removed all the addresses, including Rob's and Emma's, but in all other respects the letter is precisely as Rob sent it. Read the thing in full and you will get a very detailed account of the debacle LIPS became.

Emma AND Richard Deakin, of course, are welcome to send me their own accounts, in the interests of journalistic balance. Rob is my buddy, but I'll give the Other Side airtime if they think they deserve it.

Dear Emma:

It is with deep sadness that I must write to you. My name is Robert M. Zoschke and I am an American writer. With American poet Ron Whitehead—a Nobel Prize and Pulitzer Prize nominee and winner of the Yeats Club of Oxford’s Prize for Poetry during his studies in England—I co-edited and wrote for a new anthology in honor of Jack Kerouac and his classic work of literature, On the Road. Ron and I, along with other Americans, were invited to be a part of (and perform at) what was billed as the London International Poetry and Song Festival. The festival was produced by Richard Deakin and it was held at the Marquee Club in Soho on November 10, 11, and 12. Richard made it clear that the festival was being supported by the Arts Council, and he also made it clear that the festival would be a grand celebration of the 50th anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. This London festival was supposed to have taken place last year, with the same Beat Generation/Jack Kerouac/On the Road theme, except Richard Deakin utterly failed to promote, organize, and see the festival to fruition in 2006. Richard’s failure in 2006 (which left some American invitees with plane ticket reservations that were not refundable) had caused many of us to be wary of attending in 2007. What swayed many of us to accept 2007 invitations from Richard was the 2007 support of Arts Council England, which legitimized this festival in our eyes. The fact that Ron and I would be coming to an international festival celebrating the very same work of literature that our international anthology celebrates also assuaged our concerns.

This was not the first time I traveled to England. I stepped off the plane on November 9th with the same feeling, a feeling instilled in me ever since I was a little boy, when I listened with earnestness to my World War II decorated-combat-veteran Uncles revel in their memories of fighting side by side with British soldiers. Two things that my Uncles reiterated time and again left a lifelong impression on me, and they happened to form the thesis of an award-winning school essay I wrote as a boy. Not long before my Uncle Tony died, right before he was taken from the family home to live out his life under doctor’s care in a Veteran’s hospital, he placed his Infantryman’s Silver Star in my boyhood hand and I heard those two things for the last time…there are no atheists in foxholes, and the world has never seen brothers in arms like the Americans and the British. With this in mind, I hope you can understand that I did not feel as if I were entering a foreign land at the onset of my recent stay in England. And I hope you can understand how I felt that I was standing with brothers in arms, during the afternoon when our friends the Shaddicks of Devon led a group of us through the processional of British soldiers and British flags that proudly lined the streets during a parade near the Queen’s residence on Sunday, November 11th. Unfortunately, what should have been a wonderful day—watching a glorious parade before performing at a marvelous festival—was already well on its way to unraveling. The unraveling began before our arrival in England, and the unraveling was due solely to the utter disregard, ineptitude, and xenophobic selfishness of Richard Deakin.

All Americans who came to Richard Deakin’s 2007 LIPS Festival were unable to secure the cheapest plane tickets, due to Richard failing to identify with proper notice when the festival would be taking place. Then, on extremely short notice, Richard changed the dates of the festival, moving it from the end of October to the dates in November. All Americans (traveling to the festival at their own expense) were forced to incur plane ticket change fees in excess of two hundred dollars per person. Richard never even bothered to apologize for these additional incurred expenses, nor did he offer any explanation as to why the dates were changing, nor did he offer any compensation. Certain Americans who had been originally promised that their airfare would be paid in advance by the festival were then told that their airfare would not be paid for (example—Sarah Elizabeth, Kentucky singer/songwriter, and Ron Whitehead). While all of us waited for word on nonexistent promotional activity supporting the festival, some of us (myself included) were swept up in a conundrum of Richard’s concerning lodging. For a period of weeks leading up to the festival, correspondence with Richard kept bringing a different story…we would be provided with a place to stay, somewhere…or we would have hotel rooms secured for us at no cost…until we were told, mere days before leaving for the festival, that we had to fend for ourselves and find somewhere to stay on your own…the only assistance we received from Richard was his suggestion that we look into communal hostels, despite the fact that we would obviously be traveling with musical instruments and consignments of books and CDs. The end result was many of us Americans piling into a hotel room and sleeping on the floor and sharing one bathroom, because, as I am sure you are aware, the exchange rate does not favor the American dollar when staying in proximity to Soho right now.

Finally, merely days before boarding planes to come over, we were told of a website promoting the festival. The website’s festival schedule was chock full of to-be-determined designations, which I found particularly bizarre. Richard had agreed that this festival would include the official international release party for the Kerouac tribute anthology that Ron and I put together (a book which happens to include many Americans and Europeans who were invited to the festival), yet there was no mention of the book whatsoever and plenty of calendar space on the website taken up by three nights of mainly to-be-determined activities. Ron and Sarah Elizabeth happened to be listed as headlining featured performers for significant blocks of time on each night of the festival, a Kerouac-inspired American band (Shinerunners) was listed as a featured musical performer the first night and last night, and David Amram was listed as a headlining performer (and make no mistake, the only reason David Amram agreed to attend was due to the diligence and persistence of Ron Whitehead assuring him the festival would be run properly despite none of us receiving any customary information regarding organization and promotion prior to such a festival). So, we held out hope that we would arrive and find things in place for a successful festival with our brothers in arms from England, supported by Arts Council England.

On the first night of the festival, Ron Whitehead, Sarah Elizabeth, and I arrived at the Marquee Club two and a half hours before show time. We entered the club in disbelief, as we had been told by Richard earlier in the day that Ron and Sarah’s opening night performance would either be eliminated or curtailed significantly, that the Shinerunners had been eliminated from the opening night schedule, and that there were no scheduled plans for even a mention of the Kerouac anthology book, let alone any plans for anything resembling an international book release party. Furthermore, Richard made it clear that he did not want any performers on stage to even mention the Kerouac book, or talk about it in the lower level of the club where the performance stage was, because that would be “pandering” according to him. I must admit that I do not know anything about the ideology, respectful international inclusiveness, and standards of professionalism regarding accommodations and published schedules of events that Arts Council England expects promoters like Richard Deakin to adhere to—when Arts Council England provides support to a festival—but I cannot comprehend that what I have told you so far is part of sanctioned Arts Council England behavior. Unfortunately, what I have told you so far is just the tip of the iceberg in abhorrent treatment dished out to Americans (and non-British European invitees) by Richard Deakin, the producer of what we were learning would not be anything resembling a London International Poetry and Song Festival.

Upon entering the Marquee Club on the first night, we saw one festival poster taped to the entrance door. It had a large photo of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady and a cheery headline proclaiming the festival to be honoring the 50th anniversary of On the Road. There was no schedule of events for the three nights on the poster, but there were verbose paragraphs offering lavish praise for Festival Producer Richard Deakin, followed by the the logo stamp of Arts Council England. Throughout our entire stay in London, that poster was the only poster promoting the festival that we ever saw, anywhere. At six-thirty (a half-hour before scheduled show time) I stood in the empty Marquee Club, next to the manager of the club who was as queasy about the event as I was. I pointed to the one poster affixed to the door and asked the club manager if any flyers had been brought over to the club in advance to distribute to customers. The manager sullenly shook his head, no, adding that the one poster had been taped to the door without announcement a couple days beforehand. The club manager also rued the fact that Richard had demanded the club to bulk up the bartending staff, yet Richard never showed the courtesy to inform the manager in a timely manner of the change in festival dates from October to November. Then Richard had insisted that the manager have a large staff of bartenders on duty starting at six o’clock on the first night, November 10th. At six-thirty on November 10th, there I stood next to the club manager in the empty club full of bartenders, and Richard had yet to appear, a half-hour before curtain on HIS international festival.

Shortly after flying straight through the night from America to reach the club in time for their first scheduled performance, the Shinerunners band, being the professionals that they are, made it to the club at 6:30 PM. Richard finally showed up a few minutes later, upon which he abruptly confirmed he was eliminating the Shinerunners from the schedule. Then he informed Ron and Sarah that he might be able to squeeze them in for seven minutes of stage time (during a four-hour event in which they had originally been “scheduled” for forty-five minutes). I asked Richard when I would have stage time to read from the Kerouac anthology and he said “you’ve got to be kidding” then he waltzed away. Richard then spun around and walked back to us, asking us where Didi de Paris was. (Didi is a poet from Belgium who had been initially promised varying degrees of travel expenses, only to have that changed by Richard, at which point Didi agreed to pay his own way because it was important to him to perform with Ron and Sarah and to help launch the Kerouac Anthology book his work was featured in, all he ever asked Richard for in the end was directions on how to get to the Marquee Club. Didi doesn’t speak English very well, but he is a professional, and he had rehearsed his impending performance with a translator. Richard never showed the courtesy to reply to Didi’s repeated requests for directions to the Marquee Club once he arrived at Heathrow, so he didn’t come). Then Richard stood close enough to us Americans that we could hear him busily calling people on his cell phone, telling them the show would start at eight o’clock instead of seven, and that they should get to the club by eight. We Americans took the initiative to discuss with the club manager what we had been told the festival would be, and the manager allotted a table in the upstairs lounge for us to set up our various books and CDs.

Shortly thereafter, representatives from two UK book distributors arrived, one representing Carolyn Cassady and her autobiography and another representing the Beat Generation anthology BEAT. The UK distributors expressed bewilderment that they had been unable to obtain any information from Producer Richard regarding this festival that their companies had agreed to participate in. We Americans helped them set up alongside us. Then David Amram and Carolyn Cassady arrived, much later than they had planned to, without any time to prepare for their scheduled involvement in the opening evening, because Richard had promised both of them he would pick them up at their hotel and bring them to the club. Not only did Richard fail to pick them up as he had promised them, he also failed to send anyone to pick them up, and he never showed the courtesy to call the hotel and tell them he couldn’t pick them up. Richard had not even extended them the courtesy of knowing they happened to be staying in the same hotel, so they had come to the club on their own, separately.

What caused all the Americans to be treated like dirt? Apparently Richard’s personal plans for a festival carried out by his own whim and fancy. What was the artistic height of Richard’s impromptu customization of the opening evening that was supported by Arts Council England? Two young women who entered the club in mini-skirts and sleeveless tops, dressed as if they were looking for a disco where a Dress Like Madonna Competition was taking place. They were given seemingly endless prime time on stage despite the fact that neither of them had ever read at such a gathering before, and one of them actually read from her handwritten diary. At that point, much of the crowd downstairs evacuated the stage area as if a fire drill were in progress. The prime time inclusion of these two neophytes in such an event was so unbecoming that representatives from the UK book distributors approached the two mini-skirt women, regarding how and why they were part of the festival. They told the distributors that Richard had called them a couple hours beforehand and told them to come and read. I wish I could tell you that we Americans getting our noses rubbed in the dirt in such a manner ended right then and there, but such is not the case. We wondered why the two young women were prancing about the upstairs lounge area for some time after finally getting off the stage downstairs. Then finally Richard appeared, beaming with pride, lavishing praise on them. He had the entire first floor club area where he could have found an alcove to ensconce himself with those two apples of his eye, yet he had to lead them right up to the table where we Americans were sitting with our books and CDs. Then he took out a checkbook of sorts, with receipt vouchers in back (perhaps some funding booklet from Arts Council England?) and he proceeded to write very generous payment checks to these scantily clad diary-readers. Then he made a flashy display of kissing one of them on the lips while we Americans were attempting to answer questions about the books people were looking through. Then Richard spread out his arms to embrace and kiss the second of the two diary-readers, at which point he carelessly knocked a full beer out of the hand of a paying customer who was looking at the books that one of the UK distributors had on display. The beer spilled all over Sarah Elizabeth’s CDs, and I looked on in shock as Richard merely looked down at the mess he had caused and said nothing before walking away with his arms around the two diary-readers, leaving me to clean up his mess and try and salvage the CDs he had soaked with beer, a beer he made no effort to replace for the festival customer who had purchased it.

It was also bizarre to witness customers being charged 12 pounds admission at the door, unless they said they were from the Arts Council. Richard kept hammering the club employee working the door to “let anyone in for free if they say they’re from the Arts Council, but charge everyone else 12 pounds.” Please allow me to make clear that I have no disagreement with a policy of “12 pounds at the door unless they say they are from Arts Council England, in which case they get in for free.” If that is how Arts Council England handles admissions to events they support, so be it, I do not disrespect that policy. However, I would think Arts Council England would not want to be known as a supporter of a festival where paying customers are continually wondering why they had to pay 12 pounds and someone standing next to them in line tucked their money away and got in for free because they said they were from Arts Council England. Surely there shouldn’t be any shame in clarifying publicly that Arts Council England members get in to an event for free. The way Richard Deakin handled it, by continually leaning into the club employee’s ear and hammering it home in such a clandestine manner, offended many paying customers.

By the end of the first night, the UK book distributors had already expressed remorse and regret that what was billed as an International Festival celebrating the Beat Generation and the 50th anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road was instead a totally unorganized, mishandled, and misrepresented fiasco. One of the distributors never returned and the other left immediately after Carolyn Cassady’s reading at the start of the second night. I would like to tell you things improved, but they did not. I do not want to bore you with further explanation, I think you get the point by now, but I must point out a couple other things. During Richard’s own personal commandeering of the stage night after night, he took it upon himself to decree to the crowd: “I met David Amram in New York and David inducted me into the Beat Generation Mafia.” This incomprehensible claim by Richard Deakin brought David Amram out of the crowd to take the microphone away and clarify: “there is no Beat Generation Mafia and nobody was ever inducted into such a thing.” During another occasion of Richard’s nightly self-praising pontifications on stage, when he couldn’t think up any other baloney to tie himself to the Beat Generation in his own mind, he monopolized the stage with a lengthy reading from The Odyssey. If anyone at Arts Council England has the propensity to inform me what relation The Odyssey has to a celebration of Jack Kerouac and the classic book of literature On the Road, I would welcome the enlightenment.

I wish I could tell you the second night saw improvement in organization and adherence to at least the half-ass mostly-to-be-determined schedule that had appeared. Lo and behold, the second night was more of Richard’s shenanigans, with most of us Americans continually getting jostled around or told before taking the stage that the time we had quickly been granted was being curtailed. I asked Richard when I would be on stage and all he said was “not tonight.” At the end of the second night of the Fiasco Formerly Known as the London International Poetry and Song Festival, Richard came up to me and said “tomorrow night we’ll give a proper launch to your Kerouac anthology.” Richard’s idea of a “proper launch” via “an international book release party” on the final night of the festival was to initially say I would have ten minutes of stage time to talk about the book and read from it, which was then curtailed to five minutes, which was then incorporated into Ron, Sarah Elizabeth, the Shinerunners band, Colin Shaddick from Devon, and myself, mixed up in a hodgepodge combination lasting forty-five minutes. That forty-five minutes of time, incidentally, had originally been posted on the festival website as headliner time for Ron and Sarah.

The forty-five minutes for all of us mixed together hodgepodge was then curtailed because Richard couldn’t keep himself from more of his proclamations of self-love as he commandeered the stage, during which he droned on and on to the crowd about the one stage play he has ever written in his life, produced in 1991. Is it a standard Arts Council England operational procedure—during an international festival including many current creative works just being released—for an Arts Council Endorsed Producer to continually cast aside and ignore current creative works just being released, so that the Arts Council Endorsed Producer can continually praise a work of his own that is almost twenty years removed from being before the public eye? When Richard finally ended that lengthy stage soliloquy praising himself, he hardly ended it with a professional introduction to the Americans he was finally allowing onto the stage. He solely stated, “I don’t know how they’re gonna work it out, but we’ve got a Kentucky contingency taking the stage now.”

I must admit I don’t know anything about the types of events Arts Council England wishes to put its logo stamp of approval on. And I don’t know anything about the types of events Arts Council England wishes to subsidize with its money. And I don’t know anything about Arts Council England operational standards concerning respectful treatment of international performers at your sanctioned events. However, I find it impossible to comprehend that Arts Council England supports the unprofessional, disrespectful behavior that Producer Richard Deakin continually heaped on all Americans at the London International Poetry and Song Festival. And I must ask you very clearly, Emma, if you and your coworkers and your board members of Arts Council England knew that a festival you were supporting included an American Poet such as Ron Whitehead, who is a Nobel Prize and Pulitzer Prize nominee and also a winner of multiple scholar awards at Oxford as well as the Yeats Club of Oxford’s Prize for Poetry, would you want his originally scheduled stage time to be eliminated in favor of young women reading from handwritten diaries and kissing your Producer on the lips for payment checks, as if it were a kissing booth and not an international stage-show festival? Would you and your board members want an Arts Council England Supported Kissing Booth For Payment Checks to replace what was originally agreed to be an international book release party for an international anthology honoring the purported theme of the festival? Would you and your board members want to see Americans mistreated for two nights running, only to finally be allotted minimal stage time, which included a totally disrespectful and unprofessional introduction from your Arts Council Supported Producer? Does Arts Council England stress to its sanctioned Producers that Americans such as Nobel and Pulitzer Prize nominees and Americans who have won multiple awards from Oxford must be introduced by saying, “I don’t know how they’re going to work it out, but we’ve got a contingency taking the stage now”…???

And finally, regarding that one promotional poster that existed related to this event…on the afternoon of the final night of the festival, I went to booksellers row on Charing Cross Road. At the Red Snapper, the one famous Beat Generation bookstore in London, the proprietor was aghast when I mentioned why I was in town. The proprietor had not heard of the festival and they could not believe that a London Producer of an international festival set up to honor the 50th anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road had never sent anyone over with flyers for the Red Snapper to distribute to their customers. That is not to say flyers for the festival didn’t exist. A stack of about a dozen small flyers appeared next to some ashtrays on a ledge near the bar of the Marquee Club, on the final night of the festival. There was a big picture of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady on the front, above the logo stamp of the Arts Council England, and the back of the flyer was full of lavish praise for Promoter Richard Deakin. Apparently Richard wanted those flyers to be finally out, so as to signal that he would be commandeering the stage again on the final night. A fabulous band from northern England, T. Mandrake, had arrived on time at the start of the evening only to be told they would not be playing until 11:20 that evening. At midnight, I had had enough of Richard’s shenanigans, and I told Richard he better let them get on stage. They are as fine a band as I have ever heard yet Richard couldn’t keep from more soliloquy instead of giving them a fair amount of stage time. Finally he acquiesced but they were only afforded two songs instead of the full-hour set they had been promised. Maybe Richard thought they were Americans.

On behalf of all the mistreated Americans, the courtesy of your reply is requested. I will share any thoughts of yours with my fellow countrymen, and hopefully the next time I go to England, if there is a next time, I will feel like your countrymen and mine are still brothers in arms.

With Heartfelt Sincerity,

Robert M. Zoschke—
Co-Editor, Reflections Upon the 50th Anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road
Published in Heaven Books, Louisville, Kentucky, 2007.

cc: Althea Efunshile, Keith Harrison, Gus Casely-Hayford, Peter Hewitt, Sarah Weir, Andrew Whyte

Published in Heaven Books is the publisher belonging to the Global Literary Renaissance, a non-profit organization founded by Nobel Prize and Pulitzer Prize nominee Ron Whitehead. Published in Heaven Books has published works by many international figures, including His Holiness The Dalai Lama, President Jimmy Carter, and Bono.

Sunday, November 25, 2007


A fine collection of poets reading and what have you in California early December. Steve Dalachinsky! Gerald Nicosia! Ron Whitehead! Robert Zoschke! How can you refuse?
Imagine being in my shoes. I live thousands of miles away and I have no money and no passport.

December 6th-- 630 pm - Bird and Beckett Bookstore, San Francisco
December 7th- 7- 9 pm Mill Valley Book Depot, Mill Valley
December 8th-- 2 pm - 5 pm PEN Awards Banquet, Oakland (Steve Dalachinsky, Will Alexander and others being honored)
December 10th--North Beach Poetry-and-Music Series, Live Worms Gallery,San Francisco

Tuesday, November 20, 2007



There is an absence
of hope in her gaze,
an apathy of years
multiplied by grief.
Her words like shards of
glass sputter out. In
an old picture
on her dresser light
beams from her smile. Joy
fills the picture frame. What
happened to that face?
What madness extracted
that smile, that light? What
pill or shot could bring
back the hope absent
in her dark, brown eyes?

Saturday, November 17, 2007


Vanessa Kittle (Shushan) is 35. She lives out on Long Island with her evil kitten, Sombrero. A former chef and lawyer, Vanessa is now an English composition professor. She published 2 collections of poetry in 2006: a chapbook called Apart, and a full-length book called Surviving the Days of the Empire, both with The March Street Press. Her work has recently been in The New Renaissance, Nerve Cowboy, Limestone, Ibbetson Street, and A Generation Defining Itself anthology. Vanessa edits Abramelin, the Journal of Poetry and Magick.

she lives in winter with white sheets

surrounded by snow

cheeks blushing with the frost

they are cherry blossoms

and a scrape of dirt where berries can live and grow

i'll be winter so i can hold you holding onto leaves

and ill be snow that i may melt on your tongue

and with your breath

then you may drink me like pure glacial water

to keep you refreshed and moving through the night

come show me what the inside of your kisses look like

we were peering into mouths

touching lips with fingers

to see where kisses come from

to see why

and what the inside of a kiss is

we’ll get to the bottom of this!

we say as lovers of science

or we’ll die trying

our lips will be astronauts

on a voyage of discovery

we were pressing hands

to rib cages

to keep hearts from exploding out

we were screaming into mouths

listening for moonlight

our pieces were falling off

our bodies moving touching

coming towards

coming together

we didn’t have time

to collect them all

they became mixed up

with each other on the floor

we were rescue breathing

into each others mouth

we were collecting each other’s

pieces in armfuls

weaving them into a nest

australia will always be there

in places that go everywhere with you like a hat

a secret whispered into your mouth

i want to whisper others

one fire thing breathing air into another

danger playing with danger

fire joining fire

to make a larger blaze

and your voice whispers back

it holds the energy of a neutron star

a winter leaf

still on the tree


for the inevitable truth


the inevitable truth

you being

the only truth

as far as my eyes can see

and they see a lot

horizons far

in orbit

like two leaves falling and dancing

swirling in the wind

Sunday, November 11, 2007


if yre an advertiser, kill yrself - no really - bill hicks‏

"ginzy was such a glory hound - pay attention to me - seems his people on myspace have the same media gush syndrome - ridiculous really - his need to advertise, create a mythos, etc puts me off him - think if hed poured those energies into his work - hard to imagine horace after gushy praise... and then i intone the plutonian ode - and wish hed seen what i can hear - the self pimping was not necessary - if only hed believed in the ITE go little book - took care of catullus these millenia"

(From an email, reproduced with kind permish. I was telling Mark how, coincidentally or no, the folks who run the Allen Ginsberg site on MySpace deleted me from their friends list when I started publishing stuff about him on this site that seemed--on a superficial reading--to be unflattering to him. Nice to see someone out there agrees with me ~ Beatnik.)


Killing me.

I sat in the waiting room
looking down at my hands.
Hands are a funny thing you know.
No matter how hard you try
to stay youthful. Take care of
your body and face.
Somehow your hands always
reveal the truth.
Like your age.
And things you have done with them.
I looked down and I cried.
All these things I can do with my hands
all these things I know.
If your heart were to stop
I could help you.
But I can't save you
from your own mind.
All I can do is hold you.
And it's killing me,
that right now,
I can do no more.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Ace Freemok

The Wisdom Of The Fifth Immortals

So what is the purpose?
The ultimate goal?
To strive forward.
To induce you own consciousness to evolve.
What could be more desirable?
Than to be born anew from chaos.
Sweet, sweet chaos.


Maybe Saturday

I've a John Cash haircut
I've a pouch full of grain

I'm an ocelot in the workplace
I'm an herbed duke

Where's my PIN, WaMu?
Where's my jar of ache with vapors?

None Better Breakfast

Squirrel brains & scrambled eggs?
Pork brains canned in milk gravy?
Brain tacos?

Iguana tacos?

Raw hamburger dipped in mayonnaise?
Raw chicken giblets?
Raw liver of ray?

Deep-fried cod tongues?
Deep-fried spiders?
Deep-fried Mars bars?
Deep-fried cat food?

Grilled salamanders?
Fleshy bits of a calf's head?
Banana worm bread?

Dry toast, coffee.

Out Back Burning Newspapers

Up, yush, it did,
up & yup,
it upped.

I slammed into
the side of the bldg
again & again
until my body
was bruised
& broken
& I was bleeding
from hair to heel.

I yupped up
& slammed some more,
examining myself
for the little hurts.

Bring me the new TV Guide
so I can up, up, yup --

someone run & tell
those people upstairs --

up - up - up!

far eye

diamonds, rubies,
emeralds, pearls --
oyster shells,
karate girls.



Friday, November 09, 2007


lake city 2005 ~ robbo took me in after my girlfriend threw me out the front door one whiskey soaked night ~ my royal typewriter a professional buffalo of a machine followed through the attic window into the front yard ~ along with my library ~ there it sat for months like a crushed iron flower collecting rust --><-- robbo and i settled into a routine ~ hed return from work ~ wed set in on our poems ~ hed type ~ bob back and forth ~ grunting ~ drain cheap beer ~ eventually smash out a poem ~ i set up his skywriter ~ sometimes wed play music ~ sometimes the only sounds were the chatter of typewriters and his guttural litany as we worked back to back in the smoky room --><-- robbo owned a cat ~ i did not like it ~ it would shit on his chair and piss around the house ~ it did not like me either ~ it felt neglected and would leave turds in our path ~ as if to trip us ~ one day i returned to the desk with the beautiful skywriter ~ a yellow puddle on my manuscripts ~ the fucking cat had pissedall over my poetry --><-- its amazing that neither of us ever booted that bastard off the balcony ~ goes to show how love is blind until it snaps and that a man can get attached to a creature even when it shits all over him


Here Lies Confusion

Here lies confusion,
Confusion corner
Big roundabout
One of the biggest landmarks
In this lazy southern town.
One of the only places
You can taste chaos around here.
Bells ring,
Red lights flash,
Train horn blows
Cars stack up
Around the curb.
Train lumbers on slow.
There are some days I say
This small town livin' is saving me.
But who wants to be saved?
Most days it drives me crazy.
Leaves me jonesing for the energy
Of any big city.
Anywhere but here.
Sitting on confusion corner
Watching the cars go through.


The Pursuit Of Beauty

I looked for beauty everywhere.
The news reports that she was gone.
Or they are just ignoring her.
I began to catch glimpses of her
In my friends Poems.
Brilliance so bright
That it was blinding.
I walked outside.
Saw her in the less than plastic faces.
Yes, beauty is a woman.
Yes, there is still hope.
Then I went deep in the woods.
Virgin land untouched by the sprawl of man.
I saw beauty in the butterflies, dragon flies fluttering.
I saw beauty in the trees.
I was overwhelmed
By the beauty all around me.
We as man,
We tear her down.
In the name of progress.
Violate all that is sacred.
But I know where to find her.
I must preserve her.
Beauty must be preserved.
Artists must preserve beauty.

Sunday, November 04, 2007


down the street, around the corner, on my walk

not. if youve ever
been attacked. before
no sir i dont trust.
dogs. barely
trust humans. cats
are indifferent
long as. you feed them
nabor there keeps a pig
she. long out-lived
her husband. never
took another that. pig
squeals & grunts at.
the gate not. sure
theyve taken her keys
away yet the. old
family stationwagon
still in. the driveway
the kids
amounted to much scat-
tered to the four

--mark weber



Rain and wind mix.
Grass on beach bending.
Normally blue ocean water
Becomes pale green.
Ocean rising,
Sandpipers run.
Foam from waves
Reach across the shore.

Sound of ocean pounding shore.
Sound of wind whistling in my ears.

I am calm in the turbulence.
Far off storms
Effecting the coast.
That runt of a kid
Not buried that far.
Native floridian,
Sitting on the Boynton Inlet
Watching the storms come in.
Calm in the turbulence
Watching the chaotic ocean.
That runt now coming
To the surface.
Sitting on the shore
Calm in the turbulence.

Thursday, November 01, 2007



for dinner some soup from
the deli and a loaf of french
bread. i sit at the table where
the typewriter is, and with the
voice off on the television i read
the newspaper while i eat.
for two days now i've been
feeling ill, not able to type much
or even cook for myself.
it's even a chore just to page
through the paper looking for
something worth reading.
god, i'm so sick and tired of
living alone. to be sick
and to have no one to care
for you is a sad situation to
come to. this soup is good
though. the deli it comes from
is run by an old italian woman
and she really knows what she's
doing. and she gives you
so much that i'll have enough
for tomorrow night's dinner too.
i just hope the loaf of bread
stays fresh until then.
moving my spoon slowly
i daydream about living with
a woman who also is a good
cook. it's a comforting daydream.
i see the soup being brought to me
as i sit up in bed, and she even
tucks a napkin under my chin.
is this too much to ask for in life?
i don't think so. after i'm finished
with the soup she dabs my lips
with the napkin and asks me if
i'd care for anything else and
whether i'm comfortable or not.
as i look up from my sick bed
i see the face of an angel. yes,
an italian angel who makes
the best minestrone with
white beans and sausage soup
ever. i can actually smell
fennel on her fingers.
before leaving the room she
tells me that in order not to
disturb me she's going to sleep
on the couch. and with
these words i begin to
immediately get better.
that I end up sleeping
on the couch also is no
big surprise.

Ronald Baatz
Mt tremper/01

Tuesday, October 30, 2007


Girl, Blue Stockings

Girl, blue stockings, high heeled
going badly with this uneven
gummed terrain, and so
piggy-backed through Piccadilly
you ask for water, a little salt
excruciating slow under the gilt
red drapes, a shocker, looks
to be a three-o-clocker
back to the ever
so sleight of hand with a tip
and a flourish
back onto the street where twice-timed
girl, blue stockings, falters, halts, impedes and
halo'd by streetlight we, laughing,
fall over ourselves home.

Thursday, October 25, 2007



There’s a vast difference between creation and composition. Creation gets it down on the page while composition is a long process. Composition has many stages—first creation, then editing and peer review, which alternate until a poem finds its form.

R Creation
N Editing
T Criticism

The poet Marvin Bell offers a key to the creation of poetry: to begin we must give ourselves permission to move a pen over paper and let the ink run where it will. Leave it in the notebook. Tear it out if you must. But write. And in the act of writing, momentum builds from which the prima materia of poetry will emerge. Creation is the first step.

Next comes editing—the long process of boiling down, refining and condensation. The art of editing is like the distillation of a rare spirit. It’s the discipline of showing up in the morning for your shift at the condensery.

Give yourself permission to create now and edit later. Write the good the bad and the shitty. Nothing’s permanent. Go back later to edit, to compose, to polish. Attempting to create poetry while mentally editing does little more than cause writer’s block. We all have felt boredom accumulating under our seats while the clock ticks thunder behind a blank stare. Frustration smoldering. Behold the gaping nada happening on the page. Ecco! Get that hand moving—something much easier to do when out from under the crippling expectation that a gem ought to materialize fully formed. Most of your best poetry will not emerge for another ten revisions. Composition is a long process. Mind extends out into the tip of a pen and moves. Conflating creation with composition is the quickest way to halt this miracle of motion before it has a chance to begin.

To creation and editing I would add criticism, thus making a trinity of composition. Peer review strengthens a text through opposition. Many minds pounding away at a piece can only make what remains more robust. Pound said, “If the stone isn’t hard enough to maintain the form, it has to go out.” We work so long, with so little reward that the temptation to flatter and take our strokes where we may sometimes overwhelms our purpose. Ego rots. But the work remains. Misplacing our focus, attention goes from the work to the writer. In a sort of reverse ad hominem, we gush. We fail our office to create vibrant, healthy language by withholding criticism and allowing literature to decay. Living language becomes a husk—next stop, abattoir [read: the evening news]. Is it any wonder that Everyman ignores poetry, leaving us to our own inbred audience?

The hotter the flames purge, the brighter our phoenix. Like uncle Ez said—If the rock can’t hold the form, it must go out with the rest.

Jean Cocteau on opposition—

Fighting stimulates us, whereas a kindly disposed public sends us to sleep.

We continually need a wall, as in a game of ‘pelota’, in order to carry out our game, either alone, or with or against others. It is this that brings down on us the reproach, now of arrogance if the wall we have selected is a masterpiece universally respected—now maliciousness if our wall is a ‘master’.

But in no case is either masterpiece or master a target. The wall in the game of ‘pelota’ is not the target. We are not playing with arrows that stick in, but with balls that bounce off. No one in the Basque country ever feels sorry for the wall. It is precisely in order not to have to feel sorry for the wall, or spoil it, or make holes in it, or split it, that we choose strong ones, upon which even the hardest balls leave no mark.

Let me run and jump about and take my exercise.

Professional Secrets, COCTEAU’S WORLD, p. 380

Wednesday, October 24, 2007


of flesh

us in

this world


Tuesday, October 23, 2007


as if wistfully intoxicated
on cider from the offie,
as if rolling weed up
in a rizzla, thinking lazily
about a summer walk
with a boyfriend months ago,
as if clipping toenails
by a two-bar heater
watching "crossroads" on the telly,
sandy denny's voice floats out
from the broken-down old stereo
in my flat above the street.
and the girls in sports cars
flashing by my window
look tragically misguided
passing, while she sings:
perfect hair, expensive
victoria beckham sunglasses.
sandy denny looked like shit.
but listening to "liege and lief",
jesus, what a beauty!

Monday, October 22, 2007



early morning
first dawn light
far horizon
cardiac until bed
remote television mute
recycling weather channel
digital clock blinking
live sometime ago
waiting sunday morning
“newspapers” excuse
escaping modern wife
munising madwoman
upper peninsula tranny
petrol filled
warm beer breakfast
serious buzz waiting
crossing mackinaw bridge


12 o’clock high

awkward ‘v’ formations
returning springtime geese
louisiana flyway miles
empty spaces
gaggle members lost
like b-17 squadron ghosts
bishop cobb wilson zimmy
daylight bombing raid
schweinfurt germany
flak fw 109

Thursday, October 11, 2007


predecessors & newcomers

there are more ants
appearing on the kitchen floor
i slap some with a newspaper
they don't stick to it though
their small little black bodies
remain on the white tile
like wiggling burnt flecks
from the frying pan
some don't move at all
i am on my way out
so i leave them scattered
until i get back
but upon my return
there are more again
the tiny corpses of
their predecessors
do not deter the newcomers
from invading
they just walk around them
and head up towards
the kitchen countertops

This is the last of the current crop of poems by Rob Plath, though I would hope to publish some more in the future. In the meantime you can read more by Plath at his MySpace site (see link on the right), which he updates with frightening regularity.

Sunday, October 07, 2007


getting up at six.
black coffee in the dark.
porridge reading
poems from japan.
night drawing back
over the village
at precisely eight
somebody drilling
instructions barked
across the brittle air.
the stream of cars
steadily increasing
until they flash by
monk tinkling
on my stereo at nine
free-form piano
anachronistic brass.
on sundays
all you do
is wait and watch.
the day starts
at ten o'clock
when the supermarkets open.

Saturday, October 06, 2007


jonny brokenworld

jonny brokenworld sneaks out of the shadows
of alleyways to grab still-burning cigarettes
flicked onto the sidewalks by passersby
most of them are taken down to the filter
but jonny doesnt mind, he smokes the filters
gathers the fumes into the branches of his lungs
"that's where the heroin is," he mumbles to himself
"that's where the heroin is, fuckers"
then he blows his crooked bumpy nose
by placing a thumb over one nostril
& snorting out of the other into the gutter
then jonny slinks back into the alley shadows
& jonny brokenworld sleeps beneath a cold tarp
& jonny brokenworld swims in all of our plasma

Thursday, October 04, 2007


the gladiators

long before i began writing
the typewriter made my gut jump

in a good way that is

the entire machine intrigued me
from the keys to those two thin
metal rabbit ears in back
that held the paper up

same goes for liquor bottles
long before i ever cracked a seal
the different colored bottles
set something off in me

i sensed something
good & powerful in these things
& then a few years later
i found i was right

they are the true weapons
of gladiators

There will be more poems from Rob Plath, and a bio for the curious, in the coming days.

poem: JAN

precise physical resemblance
proves nothing, dearie.
strong gift at the typer? pshaw,
don't get sentimental on me.
they surround his corpse
like feeding crows, you know,
all these failures and fuck-ups
fifteen times removed.
there must be some kind
of goddamn screening process.
can't throw ten thou at every
old drunk with a letter
that promises the world.
soon there would be nothing left.
except the books, of course,
yeah, except the books.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

poem: jack

for gerald nicosia

jack denied fatherhood
of a whole generation
of long-haired sensitive seekers.
one beauty of a talented
daughter also, straight
off the books, right out of the will.

his good qualities are famous,
and he wrote like a dream.
he was just that sort
of absent dad, i'm afraid.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Careful, Fellows, We Are Being Watched

Now this is interesting: "Kerouac scholar" (that's how he refers to himself) and friend of the Estate Paul Maher Jr. weighs in underneath one of the previous posts with a rather weird attempt at discrediting the only Kerouac biographer recognised in the literary community, Gerald Nicosia. I say weird because Mr. Maher deleted three of his own comments before leaving only a link to some other site. I don't know what's over there, but I can imagine. Now, apparently, he's going around town telling people I'm publishing him as well as Nicosia. Well, no, Paul. I think the friends of the Kerouac Estate have enough of the media rising up on its hind legs like a dog hungry for biscuits, don't you? The problem with a blog page is that ANYBODY can comment. I must figure out a way around that.

Friday, September 28, 2007



Bruce...You took the time to write it and Norb took the time to flurry it all over the stratosphere, and I was moved to read it through...and I am inspired to take the time to respond...because, from my perspective as a reader and writer, your lines "I don't know much about the American scene...but I guess I don't have enough of an overview to comment with real authority about what goes on over there. But I know the British scene," begs a response from an American point of view....because that is where the intrigue the differences and being amidst the differences in the different "scenes". In the scene over here, I don't hear anyone hollering to "get rid of the Academies"...I hear plenty of people (the people I am tight with, like minded people mostly but more like minded as readers/writers) saying "fuck em in the ass without a courtesy of a reach-around." Over here, it's tough from a thinking writer's perspective to say "get rid of" something as inescapable as death and taxes. With thousands upon thousands of MFA Graduates every year (Master's of Fine Arts or Mother Fucking Assholes, take your pick) appearing on the "literary scene" like cottage-cheese-blotches appearing on Britney Spears' sluggard-drunken-snickers-bar-thundering-thighs...they aren't going away, period. What they are doing is continuing their sluggard takeover/monopoly of what used to be the "open to submissions from anywhere literary journals" that used to be the breeding ground of a wide variety of writers (from John Updike to Joan Didion to Harry Crews to Nick Tosches to Billy Collins et cetera) but now is a coterie of hind-licking academicians twizzling fuzzy tipped toothpicks and cheese squares at wine parties with University Big Shots, none of them giving two shits or one about what the latest "how azure is the egg" Space Odyssey "poetry" disgraced their school's lit rag, or how many translations of 17th Century Honduran Altar Boys being made out to be the next Hemingway because some of their graduates had a rich enough daddy to get a second MFA in translations happen to be disgracing their pages....the real deal on the table at those get-togethers is GRANTS, ENDOWMENTS, RICH BASTARD TRUSTEES WHO WILL GIVE MONEY FOR A SPECIAL "Literary" PROJECT IF THEIR NAME is on the masthead of a "Poetry Prize". Or, in some cases, since no one reads or buys their shit, and they are standing around wondering how the hell they are gonna keep putting the lit rag out without dipping into their own trust fund interest, they invent "contests" then continually advertise that "submissions are still being taken" until they have enough dough to pay for the issue AND award the prize to a fellow fuzzy toothpick twizzler. Meanwhile, they get hundreds (on the low end) of submissions a month, many from writers who actually have something to say, some with serious things to say. That is the rationale over here in my circle of readers/writers I know, as to why Academies are ruining poetry, and it is accentuated by such poetic works as Lawrence Ferlinghetti's City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology being in its twenty second printing and continually on back order at bookstores. If William Carlos Williams (a City Lights Published Alum) is rationale for widespread belief that Academies are ruining poetry, that's news to me, I read him when he's in anthologies I buy, but he's never inspired me to buy entire books of his, back in the late nineties when I read him last, perhaps too long ago and I would be inspired now by him, I don't know. I didn't know Buddhists don't believe in heaven until I read your essay (apparently I really was too acid and pot and blow and booze scrambled during those comparative religion courses I thought were marvelous in College). I believe in Heaven, most presently and notably as existing in between the thighs of the next woman that lets me go down on her, whenever that may be. I am ignorant of Kingsey AMis, one of your references, and if his son would ever hire a publisher to put a book out in normal size type I would read him all the way through, but I am a huge fan of Philip Larkin, everything about the man, which I have researched rather diligently probably for an American, and I would never in Americanese describe his writing as "middle-brow pleasantries" me, British middle-brow pleasantries are all the British "Comedies" that run on cable shows over here, which, I cannot stand in the same vein I cannot stand Seinfeld over here, the dumbest fucking show in the history of American Television in my opinion, absolutely nothing funny at all, just stupid, with a bunch of "middle-brow pleasantries" seeking TV watchers enthralled with it. But Larkin is the man in my book of British Poetry. To me, he's the intellectually peculiar yet insightful equivalent of William S. Burroughs, particularly if you've ever read the Larkin interviews and biographical essays on him. Maybe I'm too much of a sarcastic American son of a bitch, but I could never refer to Ted Hughes as a "meatier" poet than anybody, except maybe in the ball sack and love wand department...he was a cunning enough dude to hump n stick with the right chick and it got him published to the extreme...kind of like Raymond Carver getting a Mercedes in the driveway from the "new direction" of his career before he died, the new direction being into the arms of the Paris Review GRANT crowd thanks to the pussy willow branches he was spreading. As far as your take on Bukowski, I wholeheartedly see him having an immeasurable influence on any writer anywhere if they are a serious writer. I don't know anyone in America(or anywhere, though certainly they exist) with more Bukowski books than me, and they all have been poured over by me repeatedly for years and years, including the biographies, and I never have taken as an American reader of him that there is anything "surrealistic edged" as you take his early work to be. I've only read three or four Mickey Spillane books, ever, but from that I've never drawn in my mind's eye a Bukowski-Spillane analogy of any kind. THe Hemingway Angle you home in on is the light at the tunnel in my opinion...I would argue that if any writer is really truly more serious about writing than anything else in life, to the point they are actively engaged in trying to put a roof over their head and food on their table with NOTHING but their writing, which Bukowski was doing, even though it wasn't working FOR YEARS AND YEARS, the same as with TOO MANY OTHERS...then the Hemingway analogy is there at some point because Hemingway was and pretty much still is the HOLY GRAIL AT THE WHITE LIGHT LIFT OFF IN THAT TUNNEL DREAM...he was considered to be what he tried to be, a serious writer, his work was deemed literature and also wound up best-selling, allowing him to do WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTED TO DO WHENEVER THE FUCK HE WANTED TO DO IT, WHEREVER THE FUCK HE WANTED TO DO IT, PERIOD, WHEN HE WASN'T WRITING. Which is all Bukowski ever wanted to do, like every other serious writer, check out some of the best work of Bukowski's ever, released posthumously, when he is already sick with what will wind up being leukemia, and he is in his driveway looking at a house he bought with poetry, a BMW he bought with poetry, a fine lady taking care of him because of poetry, cats with vet bills paid for because of poetry, and a day at the track without any care about how much he will lose betting because of poetry, sick as a dog but still smiling smirking, ending the poem with "I paid $250,000 in income taxes last year." I am of the mindset (perhaps AMerican? I don't know) to be completely unable to agree at all with your take "Buk engages in this almost knee-jerk denunciation of the Academies everywhere in his poetry and letters, without really knowing what he's talking about." For my money, and with a loaded .38 pressed to my temple I'd bet my life on it too, he knew what he was talking about when he talked about "The Academies" as much if not more so than any other widely read writer with books printed in the English Language. Taking it one step further (American point of view? I don't know) in comparison to your take, I don't know any American reader/writer friend of mine who would find the mental train of thought to cite as you cite (British point of view? I don't know) "W.C. Williams", "Verse Language", or "approximating ordinary speech", in regards to discussing ANYTHING about Bukowski. Bukowski was Bukowski, original...ironically an American Original, who happened to sell more translated books of poetry in Europe than any other European Poet at the time (and probably now I would bet), otherwise those European Poets would have been on the European Book Tours Bukowski was on in Europe while coincidentally his image was plastered to billboard advertisements for his books as showcased in the biography books on him. Now, I can think of plenty of American serious-writer friends of mine who will reference "the good doctor" and "Bukowski" as you did in the same paragraph, however we would do it in referncing Bukowski and "the Good Doctor" Hunter S. Thompson as like-minded, similarly successful writers who became part of the HOLY GRAIL AT THE END OF THE WHITE LIGHT TUNNEL DREAM...they made it to the point of being able to do WHATEVER THE FUCK THEY WANTED< WHEREVER, WHENEVER, SOLELY BECAUSE OF THEIR WRITING. For my money as a book buyer and to my mind as a serious writer, Bukowski's sentimentality, most notably appearing in bulk in his posthumous work, is not a weakness at all, it is one of his greatest strengths as a writer and human being and goes a long way to explaining why his posthumous material is released as the only Hardcover standing alone amidst tinkerer's pocket thingies in the "Poetry" section at bookstores across America. The precise reason he "romanticises his own suffering, and the hard road he travelled" in your mind's my mind's eye is...Because that is the type of writer he was, just as Kerouac was the same type of writer, which I would bet my life with a loaded .38 to my temple is the explanation for why so many "literary folks" have been enraptured with drawing Bukowski into the "Beat Generation." You must have vastly different poetry journals in Britain (based on me being published there before anyone else over here ever published my poetry, and I'll extend Journals to Poetry as a Whole based on Faber and Faber advertising right on their London Website that they are actively seeking book submissions of poetry, no similar publishing house or publishing division in AMerica such as Penguin Poets in the U.S. EVER does that) and perhaps that leads to your take on Bukowski including "So what?" that Bukowski saw relevance in dismissing poets in literary journals because they don't reflect guys sleeping on park benches, which is completely opposite of my American thinking, including that I would never conjure a paragraph written about Bukowski to include "If it took a big man to suffer, pain probably wouldn't be a universal experience"...the last thing Bukowski ever thought himself to be, in my mind's eye, was a Big Man of any kind, he was himself, nothing more nothing less, that's why he could laugh and smile as leukemia struck because he paid $250,000 in income taxes one year. The last thing I ever ever ever would give a shit about is "developing a mature poetic sensibility" as you phrase it, yet I take writing very fucking seriously, more seriously than ninety percent of the American "Writers" I know. And I hope you aren't reading this thinking I am knocking you, or your own work, which I am absolutely not doing (otherwise I never would have asked you in the Kerouac Book, believe me, there's plenty of others I could have asked but I thought you were a better writer). But my American mind set makes me read your paragraph about "using Buk's insistence as raw experience as the only legitimate criteria for worthwhile writing being swallowed wholesale as an excuse not even to read Blake Bunting Pound Crane..." as a Text Book Definition, were I to write one, on WHY BUKOWSKI IS THE only poet in our lifetime who can laugh and smile and end a poem with I PAID TWO HUNDRED FIFTY THOUSAND IN TAXES LAST YEAR and why the only other poets ANYONE could possibly try and say "BUT NO WAIT" including W.S. Meerrrrrr all have had so much GRANT ACADEMY Money shoved up their ass it doesn't matter if anyone ever bought one of their hardcover books, the mortgage and car payment was already covered. If a serious writer, of any style or genre of writing, isn't a special writer because of some sort of extended raw experience, then they have an imagination that should have made them the A.K. Rowlings before A.K. Rowlings ever existed twenty years me that writer, I've never heard of them or seen them on the best-seller list...if RAW EXPERIENCE were to be unnecessary, as in, not a pre-requisite, then the best-seller lists wouldn't be routinely filled with RAW EXPERIENCE writers (IE, ex cops writing cop stories, ex lawyers writing lawyer stories, et cetera) who have RAW EXPERIENCE but CAN'T WRITE thus they are denigrated in the same articles that praise Norman MAILER for being the last serious writer to win a National BOok AWard and top the best-seller list, in both fiction and non-fiction no less. And Again, please don't mistakenly go down a mental road that I am railing on you, I am not, but I am simply awestruck by how different your mindset and mine are...but here's my take on your conclusion that builds around analogizing "the mission of future poets", "getting rid of the academies" and a quote from Tom Robbins...if someone were to get a copy of that paragraph in Tom Robbins' hands I think he would have the impetus to write a sequel to Skinny Legs and All called British Poets and my mind set...and the mind set of every serious American writer I is IMPOSSIBLE to "tell us something we don't know, in our trembling flesh" to quote your close...without RAW EXPERIENCE. That is what the American Reader (and I would argure the book buying fiction and poetry reader in Britain and every other country) is after, something that will make them conjure in their imagination "real" characters going through "raw experience"...over and out...Zeeeee

Monday, September 17, 2007

REVIEW: The Road Is Life

Jack Kerouac: “The Road Is Life” by Richard Worth; Enslow Publishers; 160 pages; $27.93

reviewed by Gerald Nicosia

In the past few years, we’ve seen United States postage stamps bearing the image of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and Cesar Chavez—all hardcore revolutionaries who spent their lives attacking the American system. My contacts in Lowell, Massachusetts, Jack Kerouac’s hometown, tell me that the U.S. Postal Service is currently giving serious consideration to a stamp honoring the biggest literary revolutionary of them all, and that before long we will probably see a stamp commemorating the King of the Beats.
And why shouldn’t we? This year, marking the 50th anniversary of the publication of Kerouac’s seminal Beat Generation novel On the Road, will see a veritable deluge of new books by and about Kerouac, including the complete manuscript “scroll” edition of On the Road from Viking Penguin, the main publisher of the Beats. Kerouac’s breakthrough manuscript, the very genesis of “spontaneous bop prosody,” typed nonstop on a continuous 120-foot roll of taped-together art paper, is now touring the country like a holy relic—locked under glass and surrounded by very serious-faced guards. And now, capping the mainstream acceptance of Kerouac, we have a high-school textbook, Jack Kerouac: “The Road Is Life” by Richard Worth—published by Enslow Publishers, one of the largest suppliers of specialty textbooks in the country.
Back in 1979, when the movie Heart Beat came out, I was given an assignment by Oui magazine to write about Kerouac’s return to literary fame and, specifically, to talk about colleges that were teaching his writing. I canvassed the country, but I couldn’t find a single American college that had a course in Kerouac. End of article.
What on earth has happened in the interval? I could be immodest and say my biography, Memory Babe: A Critical Biography of Jack Kerouac (Grove, 1983) was published, but so were a lot of other outstanding works on Kerouac—at the top of the list still two of the early ones: Dennis McNally’s Desolate Angel and Barry Gifford and Larry Lee’s Jack’s Book. And writing on the Beats, from dry-as-dust scholarly monographs to humorous, gossipy pastiches like Sam Kashner’s When I Was Cool, has grown into an industry of vast proportions.
That payback-with-a-vengeance was probably inevitable. Writers, especially those of the academic brand, are always looking for a fresh oilfield to drill. But still, the transformation of a lifelong rebel like Kerouac into a mainstream commodity required something more than just the curiosity of the sheltered or nostalgie de la boue.
Reading Jack Kerouac: “The Road Is Life,” I was as much as fascinated as appalled. To make Kerouac interesting to the young takes no effort whatsoever—the young round the world have been reading him in ever-increasing numbers for the past 50 years. But how, after all, could Kerouac—the supposed father of all dropouts, beatniks, and hippies—be rendered as a part of American society substantial enough to be studied by high-school students and, even more of a challenge, respectable enough to be acceptable (and palatable) to the parents who still have a say about what their minor children are asked to read?
Richard Worth begins the task by breaking up Kerouac’s life into nine easy-to-grasp categories, ranging from “Fame” to “The Legacy.” Nor does he neglect what might seem the most touchy area to present to young students: “Kerouac’s Long Decline.” Worth sees that there was a tremendous direction to Kerouac’s life—something often missed by fans and academics alike, who tend to believe all the myths, some promulgated by Kerouac himself, about how the Beat novelist was just a freewheeling vagabond spewing out the memories of his life as he rambled along.
Worth, in fact, understands correctly that underneath all of Kerouac’s contempt for middleclass American society was a lifelong thirst for that most middleclass of goals: to be famous. Opening his textbook with the publication of On the Road, he writes: “He [Kerouac] had dreamed of this moment all his life.” [page 7] Besides creating an obvious hook for young people, he sets up Kerouac as an enviable hero, someone with whom even the poorest high-school mook can identify: “They [Kerouac and his fellow Beat Generation writers] managed to live on little or no money in cities like New York or San Francisco … With the publication of On the Road, there was a sort of instantaneous flash of recognition that seemed to send thousands of … young Americans into the streets, proclaiming that Kerouac had written their story, that On the Road was their book.” [page 7]
Far from the glamorous James Dean-like figure, redolent of sex and masculine charisma, that publishers tried to market Kerouac as, the real appeal of Kerouac for so many readers came because of his status as a much-scorned immigrant (in his case, French-Canadian), who had trouble speaking English till well into his teens and, as his friend Tom Livornese observed, “never learned to knot his tie correctly.” Watching Kerouac demand his own piece of the American dream, not by “assimilating” but by staunchly insisting on his Canuck clunkiness and eccentricity, is a drama a lot of people—including myself—never tire of watching and reading about. And it is a surefire draw to almost every teenager who ever felt like an outsider, which means just about all.
After hooking readers in with a “how did he do it?” intro, Worth places Kerouac in the context of a Fifties America hungry for nonconformist heroes like Dean and Elvis Presley. Along the way, he manages to provide a good deal of contemporary American history and to look at Kerouac as not just a Beat phenomenon but as the product of a much larger romantic reaction against the Industrial Revolution and the conformity demanded of the millions of individual ciphers who made its wheels turn and grind.
This is not high literary criticism, but in some ways understanding Kerouac’s greatness demands this kind of hoi-polloi, populist approach. Not since Walt Whitman had an American writer identified so completely with America and its people, and Worth does a good job of showing how so much of Kerouac’s best writing came out of American popular culture, from jazz and blues music to our insatiable appetite for Wild West tales and scandals fueled by sex, booze, and drugs.
There are, however, plenty of things about the textbook Kerouac that worry me too. In Worth’s book, Kerouac’s success seems to happen almost overnight. With little if any reference to the many years of repeated rejection, dire poverty, and suicidal depression, we suddenly find On the Road “on best-seller lists across America. Kerouac went on television where he was interviewed in front of an audience that numbered an estimated 40 million viewers. More interviews followed, and book parties were given by his publishers to promote his new book. Jack Kerouac had become one of the most important writers of his generation.” [page 10]
You could almost imagine Worth adding the headline to this section: “Local Boy Makes Good.” There’s not a hint of Kerouac being “the longest shot that ever came in,” as his friend the poet Jack Micheline described him. Fact is, that roll of paper that became On the Road could just as well have remained unpublished and been thrown out in the trash when Kerouac died his early alcoholic’s death in 1969. It was rejected by numerous publishers and would have been rejected at Viking too if not for the strenuous efforts to champion it there by famous literary critic Malcolm Cowley.
What is perhaps even more troublesome is the textbook’s subtle message that the American work ethic pays. American education has always been slanted toward the optimistic, toward a belief that the pluses in America outweigh the negatives. The lesson of Kerouac’s life, for those who read Worth’s book without a larger grounding in the era and the Beat Movement, would seem to be: Work hard enough and you’ll make it—or your heirs will.
Kerouac’s decline, we are told, had largely to do with the “publicity seekers” who hounded him after his fame, and with the “distractions” of fame itself. [page 109] It’s hard to be a famous man, Worth seems to say—it can do you in if you’re not prepared for it and if you’re too sensitive and have too many “hurt feelings.” [p. 113] That America might have killed—or helped to kill—Kerouac with its conservative-based, frontal assault on the man and his work is not even suggested.
When a man or woman gets “textbooked,” inevitable errors creep in. The name of the Kerouac ancestor—from whom all the North American Kerouac families are descended—is gotten wrong. The birthplace of Jack Kerouac’s father Leo has been moved from St.-Hubert, Quebec, to the more patriotic Nashua, New Hampshire. [page 11] Perhaps most strangely, Worth has Kerouac “head[ing] to Denver by train to see [Neal] Cassady” in 1947, when in fact it was Kerouac’s hitchhiking to Denver in 1947 that created the very impetus and material for On the Road. [page 44]
But such errors are minor compared to the good of getting Jack Kerouac’s name in front of large numbers of young people—and getting them to think about the things he stood for: above all, the imperfections in America that still need correcting.
The real issue, of course, is that the Beat legacy is still not something that can easily be taught in any school in America. The chief legacy of the Beats is not, as Worth indicates, a kind of living proof that rebels can “influence American culture,” but rather that America does everything in its power to rid itself of rebels or—if that’s impossible—to stop them in their tracks. [page 125]
As the life of Jack Kerouac all too painfully demonstrates, America doesn’t respect its dissidents, rebels, and critics till they’re rich, dead, or famous—and preferably all three.

Saturday, September 15, 2007


I am prepared to say here today, to state unequivocally, that I have evidence that Viking Penguin Publishers is deliberately removing my name from books on the Beat Generation and Jack Kerouac—deliberately keeping out references to me, my Kerouac biography Memory Babe, and my Beat scholarship in any place and any literary text that they can get away with doing so.
Now this is clearly a strong charge, and I will gladly provide evidence to back it up. But this situation, grave as it is, did not come to be overnight. There is a long back-story, and you need to hear it to properly assess what is going on now. I will do my best to summarize it as succinctly as possible—but it covers more than 20 years, so please bear with me.
When I began research on my biography of Jack Kerouac, Memory Babe, in 1977, there were no colleges in the United States teaching his work—that I knew of—and very few American literary critics who even took Kerouac seriously as a writer. But my work as a biographer was made even more difficult because Kerouac’s widow Stella Sampas, who had all his papers, refused to cooperate with me or any biographer. So I made use of whatever archival paper I could find that was already in libraries, and I traveled around the country interviewing about 300 people who knew Kerouac, tape-recording their intimate memories of the Beat writer. Most of those people I interviewed, parenthetically, are now dead.
In Lowell, Massachusetts, I was fortunate to be aided by Tony Sampas, Stella’s brother and the bartender at their other brother Nick Sampas’s bar. Tony showed me Kerouac manuscripts stored in drawers above the bar, where he lived, and played rare Kerouac tapes for me after-hours at Nicky’s. I singled Tony Sampas out for thanks in the “Acknowledgments” to Memory Babe, though I did not mention the manuscripts and the tapes, because, he said, “Stella would kill me if she ever knew I showed you those things.”
During the course of my research, I learned some things that were not flattering to the Sampas family. I learned that, not long before he died, Jack Kerouac went to his lawyer Fred Bryson to disinherit Stella, his third wife, and to see about filing divorce proceedings against her. He did not live long enough for the divorce to be filed. I also learned that the father of Tony, Stella, and Nick Sampas had killed a man in a Greek dice game in a Lowell coffeehouse, and that he had done years of hard prison time for it.
I wondered about including this information—Jack divorcing Stella, and the Sampas father committing a murder—in Memory Babe. Tony Sampas, Nick Sampas, and other members of the Sampas family, including Mary Sampas, widow of Stella’s brother Charlie, had helped me a great deal during the research for my book. But in the end I felt the information was too important not to include. My allegiance was to the truth, and it was only the truth that was going to help further generations in understanding this great writer, Jack Kerouac.
I suppose I knew the Sampas family would get mad over the things I wrote about their family. Indeed, a lot of other people got mad about facts that were included in Memory Babe. It is the price of writing an honest book, as I think most biographers would agree. But I didn’t know how mad the Sampases would get.
When the Kerouac Memorial was to be dedicated in Lowell, Massachusetts, in June, 1988, I was not invited to attend. But a man named Brad Parker, President of an independent cultural group called the Lowell Corporation for the Humanities, invited me to speak in Lowell during the dedication. The Sampases swung their weight to try to keep him from getting a space to have me speak in. Eventually, after an all-out war threatened to erupt in Lowell, the “official” Kerouac committee agreed to let him have a space if I were one of four biographers who would speak. And even then, John Sampas—not yet the executor of the Kerouac Estate—did his best to keep me out of the reception after the memorial’s dedication.
In the mid 1980’s Memory Babe had gone out of print at Grove, and I had taken the book to Viking Penguin. At first the book had done well as a Penguin paperback. But then a strange thing happened. By 1991, the sales of the paperback had fallen to 50 books a year, at the same time that Penguin was issuing brand-new editions of Kerouac books, and a massive Kerouac revival was underway. Even more disconcerting, in the back of these new Kerouac editions, where they listed “other books you might like to read,” there was no mention of Memory Babe, still universally recognized as the definitive biography of Kerouac. I asked Penguin’s new Beat editor David Stanford what was going on.
Stanford assured me that Memory Babe just needed to be “repackaged.” In late 1992, he told me that he had gotten permission to go ahead with a new edition of my book in a more desirable format with lots of photos and so forth. I provided him with new Kerouac photos and offered to assist in putting together the new edition. Things were looking up, but I was puzzled by other things. For one thing, I had not been considered as a candidate to edit and introduce any of Penguin’s new Kerouac and Beat titles—jobs that were going exclusively to Kerouac’s first biographer, Ann Charters, who was not a Penguin author. When I raised that issue, however, Stanford’s response was to accuse me of a “ridiculous” and “weird” paranoia.
In February, 1993, awaiting word on the progress of the new edition of Memory Babe, I received a phone call from Mr. Stanford informing me that my book had been “cancelled” and would no longer be published by Penguin. I asked why this widely-regarded “definitive” biography would be dropped just when Penguin was becoming the primary publisher of Kerouac’s works. I was told that my book was not saleable, that it was impossible to sell more than a few hundred copies a year.
I got important friends in the literary community to write letters to Penguin, stressing the importance of Memory Babe in Kerouac studies and pleading with them not to put the book out of print. Letters in behalf of my book were sent to Penguin from, among others, Maxine Hong Kingston, National Book Award winner Larry Heinemann, Allen Ginsberg, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. All these letters were astonishing, even to me, in their praise. In the words of Aram Saroyan: “No other book on the subject touches it [Memory Babe].” Still, Penguin went ahead and put Memory Babe out of print.
Eventually I pieced together what had happened. A sea-change was happening in the Kerouac world, much of which I did not yet know about. Stella Sampas Kerouac had died on February 10, 1990, leaving her estate (which contained all of Jack Kerouac’s materials and copyrights, left to her in a will by Gabrielle Kerouac) to her many brothers and sisters. A year later, John Sampas was installed by her family as literary executor for her estate, which in essence comprised the entire literary estate of Jack Kerouac. That same year, 1991, John Sampas had then hired Ann Charters as his personal editor and consultant for Kerouac projects.
Not long after the cancellation of Memory Babe in 1992, I read several newspaper stories about how David Stanford was engaged in intense negotiations with John Sampas, both for the reissue rights to previous Kerouac titles and for the right to begin publishing much of the extremely valuable unpublished Kerouac material from the author’s archive. Mr. Stanford had told me none of this himself—and when asked about it point-blank, declared that Mr. Sampas’s wishes had had nothing to do with the cancellation of Memory Babe at Penguin.
In early 1993, I took Memory Babe to a publisher closer to home, University of California Press. Shortly thereafter, I got a call from University of California Press’s publisher, James Clark. Clark said he had just received a call from an agent named Jacob Hoye, who worked for Mr. Sampas’s literary agent, Sterling Lord. Hoye had told Clark 1) John Sampas wanted Memory Babe to remain out of print; 2) Sampas insisted that I needed to purchase new permissions to quote from Jack Kerouac’s works (the original permissions had been paid for in 1980 and 1981); and 3) Mr. Sampas would withhold permissions at any cost to keep the book out of print.
There is a long story here in how Memory Babe finally did come back into print with University of California Press, but I can’t tell it all here today. It involved the courage of James Clark in standing up to heavy intimidation, as well as my telling John Sampas on the phone that I was prepared to sue him for interfering with my own contractual relations if he persisted in attempts to keep Memory Babe out of print. UC Press went ahead and reissued Memory Babe, and John Sampas did not sue the press, as he had threatened to do.
I am now going to have to move through a lot of history, and a lot of attempts by John Sampas to censor my Beat scholarship, very quickly.
In the fall of 1993, Brad Parker’s corporation brought me to Lowell to speak at what had now become an annual Kerouac Week in Lowell. The official Kerouac committee did its best to stop him again; and though he succeeded in arranging for me to speak at the Whistler House in Lowell, the official Kerouac committee blacked out the event in every way possible. During that event, I learned that a major Beat conference at NYU—scheduled for May, 1994—was already being organized by Ann Charters and Helen Kelly of NYU. Neither myself nor Jan Kerouac had been invited. I have left out a major swatch of history here, but during almost the entire decade of the 1980’s, Jan Kerouac had been engaged in a difficult battle with the Sampas family to receive the 50% of her father’s copyright royalties that she was entitled to by copyright law. Jan Kerouac was as much persona non grata with the Sampas family as I was.
When I called Ann Charters—with whom I had performed at many Kerouac conferences—to ask if Jan and I could be included in the big NYU Beat conference in May, 1994, she told me there “was no room” for us. This struck me as strange, especially since I had managed to get her invited to the dedication of the Kerouac Commemorative in Lowell in 1988, and since I had recently helped her find some Kerouac letters for the volume of letters she was editing for Penguin. Finally, Allen Ginsberg prevailed on Helen Kelly to get us invited to the conference.
While speaking in Lowell in the fall of 1993, I had read from Jack Kerouac’s last letter, dated October 20, 1969, and addressed to his nephew Paul Blake, Jr. In that letter, Kerouac wrote that “I just wanted to leave my ‘estate’ (which is what it really is) to someone directly connected with the last remaining drop of my direct blood line, which is, me sister Carolyn, your Mom, and not to leave a dingblasted fucking goddamn thing to my wife’s one hundred Greek relatives.” In the fall of 1993, I received a call from John Sampas’s lawyer George Tobia, who was upset that I had publicized the Blake letter. He insisted it was a forgery, and he wanted me to step forward and declare the same thing publicly. I told him I believed it was genuine, and I later showed Mr. Tobia examples of other Kerouac letters written in the same period, which appeared to match the typewriter of the Blake letter exactly. Mr. Tobia then suggested that the young Paul Blake, Jr., had perhaps surreptitiously used Jack Kerouac’s own typewriter to type the letter. This seemed preposterous to me, as everything about the letter—tone, style, vocabulary, syntax—seemed authentically to belong to Jack Kerouac. In our last conversation that fall, Mr. Tobia asked why I insisted on being so “hostile” to John Sampas, and he suggested that if I would only declare the letter a forgery, Mr. Sampas could be very “helpful” to my career.
In May, 1994, Jan Kerouac filed suit against the Sampas family in probate court in Pinellas County, Florida, alleging that her grandmother Gabrielle Kerouac’s will had been forged. I was with her when she announced that lawsuit at a press conference in New York, and I made clear from the start that I supported her lawsuit—that I felt it was just and that I was in agreement with her goal to place all of her father’s papers in a library for public study, rather than having them sold off to collectors and dealers, as John Sampas had been doing for several years already. All hell broke loose then. But even before that, John Sampas had been quietly waging his war against me and my Beat scholarship. On January 31, 1993, he had written to Thomas Staley, director of the Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas, Austin. Mr. Sampas sought a list of all Kerouac materials I had viewed there; he also demanded to know how I had gotten permission to use this material. Mr. Staley refused to provide Mr. Sampas with the information about my usage of the Kerouac collection, which he claimed was privileged under Texas law. Then Mr. Sampas sought to bring a complaint against Mr. Staley with the regents of the University of Texas—a complaint that came to nothing.
In the early 1990’s, Jan Kerouac, who had successfully established her right to 50% ownership of all renewed Kerouac copyrights, asked both Penguin and Sterling Lord, again and again, to allow me to edit and/or write the introduction to the steady stream of Kerouac titles they were now publishing. She was turned down again and again. When she complained to Sterling Lord, who by terms of her agreement with the Sampases had also become her agent, Mr. Lord wrote to her that “John Sampas will not accept Gerald Nicosia as editor.” (Sterling Lord to Jan Kerouac, August 25, 1994)
In 1987, I had placed my entire archive of research materials for Memory Babe—including all 300 taped interviews I had conducted—at the University of Massachusetts, Lowell’s Special Collections—half by sale and half by donation. In mid-June, 1995, I received a post card from professor James Jones (of Southwest Missouri State College), informing me that my Memory Babe collection at the University of Massachusetts, Lowell, had been closed: “I just tried to look at the papers you donated to the University of Lowell, and the librarian in the Mogan Center told me your collection is closed to the public until the lawsuit [against the Sampases] is resolved.” In a subsequent call to the librarian, Martha Mayo, I learned that the closing [which I considered illegal and a breach of my contract with the university] had resulted from complaints by John Sampas. It took 11 years—much of it involving actual litigation—for me to get the Memory Babe archive open to the public again, and for me to regain access to my own research materials, which happened in March of last year. During that litigation, the attorneys for the State of Massachusetts made clear that John Sampas was lobbying the university very hard to keep the Memory Babe Archive closed, and to limit what material could be seen and listened to, even if it should ever be reopened.
Again, to move ahead quickly. In June, 1995, NYU held a Jack Kerouac conference, with John Sampas’s permission. Myself and Jan Kerouac were deliberately excluded, though most of the participants were the same as for the Beat conference the year before. Jan actually had to pay $120 to get in the door. On June 5, 1995, 12 years ago today, Jan Kerouac and I were removed by police from the opening session of that conference—Jan for asking for 5 minutes at the microphone to talk about major libraries that wanted to house her father’s literary papers, and me for supporting Jan’s right to speak, though some 120 other members of the conference, including Gregory Corso and Ed Sanders, later signed a petition for Jan’s right to speak there—which was ignored.
In February, 1996, John Sampas made yet another effort to have my book Memory Babe put out of print. I received a letter from his agent, Sterling Lord, claiming that I had never properly obtained permission to quote from Kerouac’s poetry in Memory Babe. I reminded Mr. Lord that we had corresponded in 1983, shortly after my book was published, and I asked why he had waited 13 years to bring up this oversight. Mr. Lord backed off.
Jan Kerouac died on June 5, 1996. She had made me her literary executor in her will, and she had instructed me to carry on her lawsuit against the Sampas family, to recover and see that her father’s papers were safely preserved in a library. For three years, from 1996 through 1999, I was engaged in a fierce legal battle with her heirs, her ex-husband John Lash and her half-brother David Bowers, who sought to remove me as literary executor and to keep me from taking Jan’s case to trial. Unable to sustain the huge financial burdens of this fight, I eventually resigned as Jan’s literary executor in 1999. It eventually came out in the probate-court proceedings in Albuquerque, where Jan died, that Lash and Bowers had concluded a “confidential” financial deal with Mr. Sampas prior to their attempts to have me removed.
There is a whole lot more here that I am forced to leave out, but let me move on to the first blatant attempt to censor my work by Viking Penguin. In September, 1997, Viking Penguin issued a special 40th anniversary edition of On the Road. The press release mentioned a dozen other Kerouac biographers and critics, but not Gerald Nicosia or Memory Babe. However, the press release from Viking Penguin lifted nearly 100 words word-for-word from my biography without any kind of credit whatsoever. This plagiarism was brought to the attention of Viking Penguin by my then attorney, but no correction or apology was ever made. A pattern was set for how to deal with me and my work.
Before I move up to the present, I need to mention a man, a Kerouac biographer, Paul Maher, Jr., who by all accounts—including that of historian Douglas Brinkley—is “very close to Mr. Sampas.” Mr. Maher has been very close to Mr. Sampas since at least 1999—I have a photo of them together at that time—and perhaps earlier. In 1990, Mr. Maher was charged with, and pled guilty to, stealing thousands of dollars in rare books from the University of Massachusetts, Lowell’s Mogan Center—the same place where 60 precious letters from Beat notables like Ginsberg and Burroughs were stolen from my Memory Babe collection around the same time. In the late 1990’s, Mr. Maher made himself prominent on the internet for vicious attacks on both my book Memory Babe and on myself—and he sent me some threats (a cartoon of myself next to a tombstone, for example, with reference to the recent murder of a teacher in Arkansas) so menacing that I took them to the FBI.
In 2004, Mr. Maher published a book called Kerouac: The Definitive Biography. What I found in his “Notes” were citations, close to 100, of material that was in my Memory Babe archive at Lowell. A subsequent call to the university informed me that Mr. Maher, despite having robbed the University of Massachusetts, was allowed back in to use the Memory Babe collection for his book on Kerouac. But despite his manifold use of my own research material, he gives no indication of borrowing from me. Instead, his citations read merely “University of Massachusetts, Lowell.” In a word, he pillaged my research. Mr. Maher’s book thus becomes a handy tool for anyone wanting to quote from Memory Babe or my own research on Kerouac without having to cite me.
Why would anyone want to do that? There has been intense pressure from John Sampas to keep me out of anything to do with Kerouac—conferences, books, films, you name it. Mr. Sampas, controlling all those valuable Kerouac copyrights and trademarks, has a powerful hammer. I am sure I have not been aware of a half or even a fourth of his attempts to censor me out of Kerouac studies, since most people do not want to talk about such interactions, especially when they bow in a cowardly fashion to his pressure.
On November 6, 2000, I met with Judy Sharples in San Francisco. Doug and Judy Sharples, a married couple from South Dakota, both filmmakers, worked 17 years on a documentary film about Jack Kerouac called Go Moan for Man. When I saw it, I felt it was the best documentary yet made on Jack Kerouac, and I still feel that way. Judy Sharples told me of the nightmare they had endured when they went to John Sampas to secure the Kerouac copyright permissions necessary to put their film into commercial distribution. The film included an interview with me that had been done in Lowell in 1988, and John Sampas demanded they remove it from the film. They had included an interview with him in the film, but he told them he would not allow them to include him in any film where I was also included. Then he told them that he would not sell them permissions at any price until they took me—the entire interview with me—out of their film.
The Sharples refused to remove me from their film. Judy Sharples says John Sampas eventually did allow them to purchase the necessary permissions, but she felt he created obstacles to the film’s distribution, especially to it being seen at Kerouac Week in Lowell. The film, in fact, has never yet been shown at the annual Lowell Celebrates Kerouac! festival in Lowell, for which John Sampas provides partial funding and whose yearly program he has veto power over.
The fact is, in 20 years of programs, I have never been invited by the official Kerouac committee to its yearly October program, though Brad Parker brought me, on his own, several times to Lowell to speak in October. Hillary Holliday, chairperson of the English Department at U Mass, Lowell, and whose annual Kerouac seminar depends largely on John Sampas (for money, permissions, who knows what), told me flatly on the phone that I would never be invited to a Kerouac seminar in Lowell. And three years in a row, when I sent a $25 check for membership in Lowell Celebrates Kerouac!, it was returned to me uncashed by Lowell Celebrates Kerouac! president Lawrence Carradini, with the information that the board had disallowed me to join—even though membership was solicited from the public in all sorts of advertisements, and I do not know of any other person so banned from joining this nonprofit organization.
I began to get used to seeing material pulled from Memory Babe appearing in other people’s works without any citation whatsoever. Bill Morgan’s The Beat Generation in San Francisco is a case in point. I found several episodes in there—like Kerouac’s meeting with David Niven in North Beach in 1959—that were told in Memory Babe and nowhere else, and yet the source, my work, was not credited at all. In the Niven episode, there was even a direct quotation from Memory Babe with no citation.
I already knew that Bill Morgan, as one of Allen Ginsberg’s 3 executors, was working with John Sampas. James Grauerholz, heir and executor of William Burroughs, had stopped by my house shortly after Burroughs’ death to tell me: “We just had a ‘summit meeting’—the executors of the three great Beat estates—Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Burroughs. We’re working together toward mutual goals—like the superpowers.” Somehow I didn’t find that comforting.
In a way, I was kind of like Dylan’s Mr. Jones. “I knew something was happening here,” but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
Then a revelation came with the publication of Kerouac’s journals, titled Windblown World and released by Penguin in 2004. The book was edited by historian Douglas Brinkley, who at that time had made a contractual arrangement with John Sampas to write the authorized biography of Jack Kerouac. While reading Brinkley’s “Introduction,” as well as his notes to journal entries, I saw numerous borrowings from Memory Babe. Yet in Brinkley’s “Acknowledgments” there was a mention of just about everyone in the Beat world, including Paul Maher, Jr., but not a word about me or Memory Babe. What was so galling about this slight—or one can probably say accurately, ethical breach—was that in the early ‘90’s Brinkley had written me twice to say how much he had learned from and admired my work on Kerouac.
I called Doug to ask why he had not acknowledged use of Memory Babe in Windblown World. He was clearly uncomfortable with the question, but he could not deny that material from Memory Babe had found its way into his new book. Finally he said to me, by way of explanation: “You know, Gerry, I’m not doing this book by myself. I’m working for John Sampas. I have to do what he tells me.”
I told him that work-for-hire was not an excuse for stealing someone’s work—which is what using a scholar’s or writer’s work without acknowledgment amounts to. I immediately contacted Penguin about the fact that I would not allow my work to be simply taken over like this—and Penguin agreed to add my name in the Acknowledgments. The galleys and published Windblown World exist in two distinct versions—one containing Nicosia, the other without a trace of my name in the Acknowledgments—to corroborate my account.
But a lightbulb had gone on in my head, making me recall my conversation with Judy Sharples. I suddenly realized that all these omissions of my name were not accidental things—the product of sloppiness or bad scholarship—but were mostly being done with conscious deliberation and often under direct pressure from the Kerouac Estate.
It is hardly surprising, then, that in 2006, when I learned that Bill Morgan had made some reference to my relationship with Allen Ginsberg in his forthcoming Ginsberg biography I Celebrate Myself, that I wanted to see what he had written—to check for accuracy and to see how, if at all, my own material might have been used in his work.
For several months, Beat editor Paul Slovak avoided and evaded sending me the passages I requested. I had to keep insisting—truthfully—that it is standard practice to let someone who is written about in a biography see how they have been portrayed—especially when that person had a complex relationship with the subject of the biography, as I certainly had to Allen Ginsberg. When I received the passage, however, I was quite pleased, and had no factual quibble at all with it. Here’s what Paul Slovak sent me:

In the tent each night, he [Ginsberg] had time to relax as he skimmed through
Gerry Nicosia’s new Kerouac biography, Memory Babe. “For all its crudities [it]
is a monument of Kerouac, smells and tastes like Kerouac, has a powerful impact
and a mountain of life detail I’d forgotten, great book,” he wrote. In Allen’s
opinion, of all the books about Kerouac to date, it was the one that came the
closest to capturing his true essence.

I admit I felt some anger, but it was only in this regard: both Ginsberg executors, Bill Morgan and Bob Rosenthal, had known I was under attack from John Sampas for more than ten years, and that, specifically, Memory Babe had been savaged again and again as a “fraudulent” book. Paul Maher, Jr., had even made claims that I had simply invented portions of the book. I wondered why Morgan and Rosenthal had sat on this passage for so many years, when it would have laid to rest the charges of Memory Babe being “invented.” I was obviously delighted that the quotation was finally seeing the light of day, since it would provide an irrefutable answer to Sampas and those who did his speaking for him.
I never saw galleys on Morgan’s biography—a strange fact in itself, considering that I am a major book reviewer for papers such as the Chicago Tribune and the Los Angeles Times, and have given rave reviews to close to a dozen Penguin Beat books over the last 15 years or so. When I finally saw the published book, I was shocked to find that the entire passage on Ginsberg and Memory Babe had been stricken from the book. Instead, the whole episode has been reduced to one anonymous sentence: “In the tent each night, he [Ginsberg] had time to relax as he skimmed through a new Kerouac biography.” [I Celebrate Myself, p. 566]
The handprint of John Sampas could not have been clearer, especially since I knew that he and Morgan were currently assembling a book that will probably become a best-seller, the collected letters of Ginsberg and Kerouac. I wrote twice to Paul Slovak about why I hadn’t seen galleys, and why my name had been erased from the book. I finally got an answer from him almost three weeks later. He claimed that Morgan had removed me and Memory Babe because he was “so disturbed by all the questions you started asking” and his perception that I wanted “to be more in the book.” Well, I had kept asking to see the passage or passages because for months Paul Slovak had refused to send them. And I had never asked “to be more in the book.” At one point I had offered to let Morgan see the many letters I had from Ginsberg, especially during the writing of Memory Babe, so that Morgan could get a better idea of the complex interaction between Ginsberg and myself as we perfected the text of my biography.
I did not accept this explanation, and I made it clear to Slovak that I felt the passage about Ginsberg’s reactions to Memory Babe should be restored in the paperback edition of I Celebrate Myself. This request, by the way, has been made several times to Slovak and to higher-ups at Viking Penguin, including the editorial director of nonfiction Wendy Wolf and to Kathryn Court, the President and Publisher of Penguin Books. No response has been made to it—just a stonewall of silence. I did get a remarkable email from Slovak, however—remarkable because it was more revealing than I would have expected. He wrote me on October 6, 2006:

Listen, I myself value how knowledgeable you are about the beats and how thoughtful your reviews of some of our recent Viking penguin beat titles have
been and your good connections with book review editors, and I think I have
been trying to be pretty good about getting the galleys to you, and I will continue
to do so, even though all of the authors and/or their respective agents and
representatives involved don’t seem to want me to send anything to you, whether
galley or finished book.

What I had assumed was the monomania of one man, John Sampas, in wanting to erase me from Kerouac scholarship now sounded like a conspiracy of several, perhaps many people, including Sterling Lord. Add to all that the power of a publisher with assets in the billions of dollars, Viking Penguin, and the attempt to nullify my existence as a biographer and literary critic could no longer be viewed as an eccentric prank or a futile act of spite. There was clearly a major campaign going on, and, most troubling, it was clearly succeeding in its goals.
True to form, I heard nothing from Penguin, “official biographers” like Douglas Brinkley and Ann Charters, the Lowell Kerouac committee, agents, editors, or anyone else connected with the Kerouac Estate about the major plans to celebrate the coming 50th anniversary of On the Road on September 5, 2007. Only through backchannels, organizations I have worked with on past Kerouac events, friendly book review editors, media people who rely on me for Kerouac information, and so forth did I learn that Viking Penguin is coming out with at least four new Kerouac-related books to celebrate the anniversary: a book-length essay by John Leland called Why Kerouac Matters; a new Portable Kerouac; a special 50th anniversary edition of On the Road; and the so-called “scroll” edition, or complete text, of On the Road.
I got a review assignment to review these books and wrote to several people in Penguin’s publicity department for galleys. I never got them. I wrote dozens of emails to a handful of different publicists requesting specific information, including how to reach John Leland as well as the four editors of the complete On the Road, none of whom I had heard of before. I had other Kerouac projects going, including a Kerouac symposium I am organizing, for which this information would have been useful. Again, I got none of the information I asked for. For the past couple of months, I have gotten no response to any phone calls, emails, or actual letters sent to anyone at Viking Penguin—until, finally, a brief call back from Paul Slovak on May 22, 2007.
In the meantime, I was able to reach John Leland on March 7, 2007, through contacts I have at the New York Times. I asked to interview him for the piece I was writing, and he consented. During that interview, I was simply shocked by what came out while we were on the record. I will read to you a brief excerpt from the interview:

GN: Besides getting me the name of the editor [of the ON THE ROAD ms.], if you could, give me a heads-up when galleys are available, just in case I don’t get them—things do slip through the cracks over there at Penguin….

JL: That’s because they hate you! What can you do? You know.

GN: No, it’s not they hate me, it’s John Sampas who hates me….

JL: No, no, it’s Sampas that hates you, yeah ….

GN: And that is not a fair situation, as I think you know. … whenever is a blacklist a fair situation? So what did you hear about that?

JL: Oh, very little. I think that Slovak is protecting me from Sampas … you know, I’m sure that Sampas is weighing in on my book … and every so often there’ll be something in the book and it’ll be cited to you, and he’ll say, “Well, you know, can we cite this to anything else?” ‘cause I’m sure he’s just anticipating Sampas’s … having to deal with Sampas. Because they have an extremely extremely lucrative relationship with Sampas, and I think they need little from me, other than this … a manuscript to throw into the Kerouac maw, which needs to be done every so often.

GN: This kind of thing has been done for a long time, and I don’t know what you think about it, but it really is a travesty of scholarship to try to take somebody’s name out.

JL: I would never do that.’s very easy for me to say, when we at the Times write for other places we are expected to maintain the same ethical standards that we do when we’re writing for the Times, and I would never do that in the Times because somebody wanted me to take somebody’s name out, and I wouldn’t do it in my outside writing either.

So now I was face to face with the truth. John Sampas and Paul Slovak worked together to delete my name from texts wherever they could get away with it—and I would probably never know all the places where my name or the title of my book had been removed—or for how long this had been going on. Still, I was shocked again when I finally saw the galleys of Leland’s book and of the roll edition of On the Road.
In our interview, Leland had referred to several citations to Memory Babe in his manuscript, but I found only one in the galleys of his book, on p. 13, a reference to Neal Cassady having crab lice, which I had learned from my interview with Tom Livornese. Even more surprising, I found three direct quotations from Memory Babe without any citation whatsoever. These occurred on page 21—Tom Livornese’s view of Cassady’s rap as “an astronomic con of the worst sort.” That is from Memory Babe, page 174. On page 56 [of Leland’s galleys]: Kerouac’s views on sex, as recalled by Ted Berrigan, “Blow jobs, yes! Assholes, no!” That is from Memory Babe, page 685. And on page 192 [of Leland’s galleys]: Kerouac’s complaint that “I’m the only major writer in America today who was never won a prize. Never.” That is from Memory Babe, page 649.
I was even more surprised to find that, although Memory Babe was included in Leland’s “Notes on Sources,” it was described as a book chiefly about Kerouac’s “decline.” I did not get to mid 1959 in Memory Babe—about the time Kerouac’s real decline begins—until page 598 of a 698-page book. I.e., 6/7 of the book is not about Kerouac’s decline. Even stranger, in a way, was an earlier remark of Leland’s that “Most scholarship on Kerouac has been about how he lived or how he wrote, not what he wrote.” That would have seemed the perfect place to mention Memory Babe, thus far the only book to devote extensive space to a critical analysis of all of Kerouac’s major books.
First off, let me make clear that Viking Penguin did not send me galleys of any of these new books. Several publicists at Penguin had been contacted by email and phone several times. One of them Carolyn Coleburn, had even promised me in an email on March 9 that she would send me galleys of both Leland and the “scroll” edition “when they arrive.” But then, for several months, I couldn’t even get an answer out of Viking Penguin—from anyone. I got galleys through my own literary connections—not all of which John Sampas has managed to shut down.
On May 18 I left a phone message for Mr. Leland that I had important matters to discuss with him about his book. On the same day, I sent him a lengthy email. Besides mentioning the three direct quotations from Memory Babe that had received no attribution, I mentioned the misrepresentation in his “Notes” that “the bulk of the book,” my book, was “about Kerouac’s decline.” I also wondered why, when he wrote about the lack of critical attention to Kerouac’s works, he did not mention that at least one book, Memory Babe, was filled with literary criticism of Kerouac’s books. In addition, I pointed out an inaccuracy that I had mentioned to him on the phone—that William F. Buckley, Jr., was not a friend of Kerouac’s; and I also pointed out that his remark that Jan Kerouac “lived a more self-destructive life than her father” was quite inaccurate.
I did not hear from Mr. Leland until he sent me an email on May 23, 2007. In that terse 4-sentence email, he told me he had removed the reference to Buckley from his book and also deleted the characterization of Memory Babe “as largely about Kerouac’s decline.” But he did not refer at all to any of the other issues, including his use of unattributed quotations from Memory Babe in his book. I wrote him back immediately to ask what he planned to do about attributing those three quotations. Mr. Leland then wrote me back that “I acknowledge all sources at the end, with a descriptive phrase or sentence where I felt it appropriate … In a non-academic book, I feel this serves readers better than pages of academic citations or footnotes.” I then wrote Mr. Leland back that, non-academic or not, it is unethical to quote directly from someone else’s book without attribution. I suggested, if he did not want to break the flow of his essay, he could simply add a sentence in the “Notes” which read: “Direct quotations of Tom Livornese and Kerouac on his sexual parameters and desire for an award were taken with permission from Gerald Nicosia’s Memory Babe.”
I felt, in a way, that I was being the generous one, since I was offering him permission to use quotations from my work that he had never bothered to ask me permission for. Mr. Leland did not respond. Apparently he still felt that to make my words his words was all right, as long as he was writing a “non-academic book.”
But again, let me interject, that I am forced to play a guessing game here. I am not privy to any of the discussions between Slovak, Sampas, and/or John Leland—and I would bet there have been several on the issue of me, Memory Babe, and how I am to be cited—if at all. In fact, it is clear there have been discussions at least between Mr. Leland and Mr. Slovak—which I will get to in a minute.
There are stark facts staring me in the face, however—in white and black. Howard Cunnell, one of the four editors of the roll manuscript of On the Road, has also refused to answer the queries I sent him. When I got galleys (no thanks to Penguin) of the roll manuscript of On the Road, I read Mr. Cunnell’s introduction. There is clear use of material from Memory Babe in Mr. Cunnell’s introduction, yet nowhere in the book—not even in the bibliography or acknowledgments—am I or Memory Babe mentioned. As if this ethical violation weren’t enough, insult is added to injury by listing Paul Maher, Jr.’s Kerouac: The Definitive Biography in the bibliography—a book, as previously mentioned, which made widespread use of my own research. Several other books listed in the bibliography came after Memory Babe and made undisputed use of my own book and work on Kerouac and the Beats.
On May 21, 2007, I wrote to Mr. Cunnell to ask why he had made use of Memory Babe in his introduction but had not listed it in his bibliography. I also pointed out that he had listed Paul Maher, Jr.’s book in his bibliography, when Mr. Maher had made extensive use of my own research. I felt omission of Memory Babe from the bibliography, considering all those circumstances, was an “ethical violation of a rather high order.” Mr. Cunnell has made no response to my complaint about his having used my work without crediting it.
I had left a phone message for Paul Slovak on May 22 telling him that there were important matters I needed to discuss with him. I finally received an email from Mr. Slovak on Friday May 25, just before the start of the Memorial Day weekend. It was a long email, talking down to me almost as if I were a child, instructing me that I must not contact Mr. Cunnell, any of the other editors of the roll manuscript, the Penguin publicists, or anyone else at Penguin except him ever again. He also volunteered that he has been having phone conversations with people that I work for, such as Elizabeth Taylor, Book Editor of the Chicago Tribune, and that he gave permission to Ms. Taylor for me to write a piece on On the Road for the Chicago Tribune. Exactly why he should have to give any of my employers permission for work assignments is beyond me. There was also a veiled threat that a book proposal I have at Viking Penguin now, for a biography of Ntozake Shange, would be in trouble if I continued to complain about my name being taken out of books.
Finally, Mr. Slovak attempted to play a game with me that is worthy of a ten-year-old. He wrote that Mr. Cunnell “did not consult or read your book at all” but asked, “If you think he has used material from your book, can you let us know where in his introduction, and where in your book?” Which is to say, “Mr. Cunnell could not have taken material from Memory Babe because he never read it,” but “Can you show us what he took?” Or to translate even more succinctly, “Tell us what you know, before we admit what we know.”
Mr. Slovak assured me that “Sampas was allowed to read it [Mr. Leland’s book], when it was in first pass pages, as a matter of courtesy, and he had very little to say about it, other than pointing out a couple of biographical inconsistencies. It’s completely John Leland’s book—no one else from the outside has fiddled with it, or made suggestions to him about what or what should not go into it.”
Mr. Slovak then offered to add the line I had suggested for the “Notes,” acknowledging the direct quotations, but in the same sentence told me “the book is supposed to go to the printer today” and that it was probably too late to make the change. He held out the hope of adding the sentence in a “second edition.”
Finally, he told me “focus” on “celebrating the 50th anniversary” of On the Road—this from a man who did not even have the courtesy to let me know any of Viking Penguin’s plans for the celebration, including the forthcoming four new books, which I had found out about elsewhere.
I emailed John Leland on May 27 to tell him of some of the issues that were troubling me, and to ask if any citations to my work had been removed from his manuscript. A day later I received a one-word answer: “No.” While I have no reason to believe that Mr. Leland is anything but an honest and ethical man, I am still troubled by his assertion in the initial interview I did with him, that there were several citations to my work in the manuscript of his book that he delivered to Penguin. There is clearly only a single citation to my work in the galleys I saw of Why Kerouac Matters. Once again, I am faced with a situation where things do not add up.
After several more emails between myself and Mr. Slovak, I received an email from him telling me: “It’s true that Leland should not be lifting word for word quotations without putting quotes around them and citing you. I’m glad you pointed that out. We are going to be able to make that addition that you suggested [of a citation to Memory Babe in Leland’s ‘Notes’].” My other issues were still ignored, however.
After all this, I suppose it is anticlimactic to even mention the fact that I was prevented from speaking at the dedication of Kerouac Alley in San Francisco on March 31 of this year—banned from speaking there, after I was officially invited by both the Chinese Community Development Center and Vesuvio’s Bar, two cosponsors of the dedication, and after my place on the speaker’s rostrum was already announced in an article by Carl Nolte in the San Francisco Chronicle the day before, March 30, 2007. Mr. Ferlinghetti’s steward at City Lights, Peter Maravelis, had told Cathie Lam of the Chinatown group—apparently at Mr. Ferlinghetti’s instigation—that Mr. Ferlinghetti would in no way tolerate my speaking there, and Mr. Maravelis had gone on to warn her that I was a known “troublemaker” on whom they had already had to call the police at City Lights Bookstore. It was an outright lie—no one has ever “called the police” on me in my entire life—but I was banned anyway from speaking, because Mr. Ferlinghetti had threatened not to appear if I was allowed on the rostrum. Earlier, Mr. Ferlinghetti had told me, point-blank, when I confronted him on the street one day, that he intended to blacklist me indefinitely “for having sued the Sampases”—an inaccurate statement, of course, though I did support Jan Kerouac’s lawsuit. The Sampases, he said, were his friends. And the fact is, he has had several business dealings with them over the past few years.
I am speaking about this today for several reasons. One does not lightly accuse august, not to say powerful institutions such as Penguin Books and City Lights Bookstore of conducting censorship or running a blacklist. But the facts of this censorship and this blacklist are now so blatant that they are crying to be told—if only because they have been affecting myself and my family, which includes my two small children, in an extremely destructive way for several years already.
It is tempting here to defend myself, to insist on the importance of my Beat scholarship or the centrality of my book Memory Babe to Kerouac studies. I could point out that before John Sampas’s ascension to executor, I took part in every major Beat and Kerouac conference in a decade (the 1980’s)—from the Naropa Institute in Boulder to Plymouth, England, to Quebec City to the dedication of the Commemorative in Lowell, itself. I could point out that the late Bruce Cook wrote in the Washington Post in 1997 that Memory Babe was “the best of the Kerouac biographies”; that also in 1997, Robert Stone called me “a major critic of the Beat period” in the New York Times; that in 1998 British writer and biographer Barry Miles called Memory Babe “the greatest work of Kerouac scholarship there is”; or that, as recently as 2003, the London Times Literary Supplement wrote that Memory Babe was still “the best biography of Jack Kerouac” (TLS, Sept. 5, 2003). Or that Walter Salles, director of The Motorcycle Diaries, when he came to interview me a year ago for his coming documentary on Kerouac, brought me his own copy of Memory Babe to sign to him, and told me it had been an invaluable resource for him in both the documentary and the feature film of On the Road that he is currently working on.
But I suspect you can find those kind of quotes, and a lot more, easily enough on your own.
It might be worth noting, however, that the people who have made such positive comments about my work are—almost to a one—outside the sphere, economic or otherwise, of John Sampas. Or that never before in history—to my knowledge—has a single scholar been the subject of such a widespread vendetta carried out for other than political reasons.
It would be still more pertinent to look—not just at the effects of this censorship on me and my family—but on Kerouac scholarship in general. There is trouble in the world of Kerouac studies, a widely-known fact that is discouraging many of the best students from doing a thesis, writing a book, making a film, or otherwise developing their own insights into Kerouac and the Beat movement. I recall, just a year or two ago, a young woman graduate student from the Communications Department at UC Berkeley, coming to me for help with a documentary film on Kerouac that was to be her graduate thesis. Soon thereafter, she told me she was giving up the project, because the agent for the Kerouac Estate, Sterling Lord, had denied her the permissions she needed, informing her that John Sampas did not approve of her project. I have heard stories like this again and again, both from students and the professors who were teaching them.
There are probably a hundred good reasons why this blacklist and censorship has to end. Professor Matthew Bruccoli, the world’s preeminent Fitzgerald scholar and a partner in the distinguished publishing company of Bruccoli Clark Layman, told me that it “violates very principle of good scholarship and good publishing.”
I’ll conclude by reading three letters of support that were sent to me, the first by Maxine Hong Kingston, one of the nation’s most distinguished writers, a professor emerita from the University of California, Berkeley, and recipient of the National Humanities Gold Medal from the President of the United States in 1997; the second letter from Beat poet David Meltzer, whose collected poems were recently published by Penguin, where he is referred to on the cover as “one of the most respected poets of the Beat and San Francisco Renaissance periods”; and the third from Michael Schumacher, whose biography of Allen Ginsberg, Dharma Lion, is still regarded by many people as the best life study yet done of Ginsberg.
The first, the letter from Maxine Hong Kingston:

May 12, 2007

To Whom It May Concern:

This year being the fiftieth anniversary of On the Road, Jack Kerouac and his masterpiece will be celebrated worldwide. At every gala occasion, we must be sure to congratulate Kerouac’s best biographer, Gerald Nicosia. Thanks to Memory Babe, readers have a true, detailed, well-documented story of Kerouac’s life and milieu, the Beat Generation. Critics unanimously praise Memory Babe for its honesty, its broad, deep research, its narrative style, and its respect for and understanding of Jack Kerouac. On the Road and Memory Babe beautifully complement each other.

Memory Babe contains a treasure trove of interviews and correspondence which Gerald Nicosia conducted with Beat Generation figures. His work has been a useful resource to almost everyone working in this field. Because of obstacles with the Kerouac Estate, there is still not open access to much of the original source material on Kerouac. Memory Babe, then, is all the more vital to scholars making literary studies of Jack Kerouac’s work. There have been attempts to obscure the importance of Gerald Nicosia’s contribution, but that kind of interference can only hurt Kerouac scholarship and the open exchange of ideas that the Beats sought to foster. It should not be tolerated.


Maxine Hong Kingston
Senior Lecturer Emerita

The second, the letter from David Meltzer.
Dear Gerry,

Hear you loud & clear.
Am frankly disgusted by the so-called Establishment erasing you from
their narrative of a history that has to be multi-vocal, not one-sided
like the current Administration's explanations for horror & death.
There's no question amongst my peers who consider Kerouac to be a major
innovator & creator, whose work challenged acceptable 'norms' -- just
as now you're facing those rectors who are not dissidents but venal
opportunists, vermin on the corpse that wd transcend this horrific
erasure of the freedom Kerouac fought for &, yes, lost in the
terrifying Acceptance of his resistance, the ultimate defeat.

MEMORY BABE remains the core source of Kerouac scholarship even though
I admire Anne Charter's pioneering work & Dennis McNally's bio, they
were partial & incomplete until your MEMORY BABE was published.
Scholars ultimately "own" nothing but their distance from the actual.
Everything else remains riffing.


As ever,

David Meltzer

The third, the letter from Michael Schumacher.
Gerry--I didn't know what you wanted for a statement, but here's a brief one. Feel free to use it any way you wish:Memory Babe, Gerald Nicosia's biography of Jack Kerouac, is an invaluable work of scholarship, influential in terms of the way we understand the works of one of America's greatest post-war writers, and in the way we write about them. (I used the book as an important source for Dharma Lion, my biography of Allen Ginsberg.) Since its publication in 1983, Memory Babe has remained, without dispute, the most detailed and in-depth Kerouac biography, and any future Kerouac/Beat Generation students would be well-advised to consult this book before beginning their own work. Any formal or informal efforts to denigrate or eradicate Nicosia's name or reference to his work, or to deny Nicosia and Memory Babe their status at the pinnacle of Kerouac and Beat Generation studies, are not only grossly objectionable in the sense of pure scholarship; they violate the open, free-spirited, joyous, mystical, comical, and heartfelt jewel-centers of Beat Generation writings, reducing a compelling body of literature to mere carrion picked over by those with questionable motives and agenda. Hope that works for you. If you need more, just let me know. OK, later,Mike [Schumacher]

Thank you. I will now take questions.

(Reproduced by kind permission of Gerald Nicosia)