Remembering Roger in 2020
On a dreamlike day, I found myself in New York and it is where I found my Ghostman. There he was, seated at the intersection of 6th Avenue and 54th Street, surrounded by honking taxis, the rumble of trucks, and millions of passersby. A street poet, he was seated on a three-legged stool, in front of his portable typewriter which was perched on a very small table. He was a man, shaggy and worn, not young but not old. Curly light brown hair. Brown eyes and brown beard. Kind but weary eyes.
Hanging from his little table was a hand-printed sign that said, “Poetry, for sale. Let me write a poem for you.” Smaller print underneath said, “Give me a topic, I write you a poem. You decide what it’s worth.”
GHOST
absorbed, as the talent does,
into your own pages:
sweet thief, my least favorite story
was the last one,
when you stole yourself away.
invented worlds:
gifting escape, sending strangers
fantasies you invented in
the desperation to survive.
the soft itch, the slow warm
slumber of escape
kept secret as the drifting
playground you floated to and brought
back magic --
ghostman the writer is magician
criminally crafty
when are you returning?
you have given us a dream
we cannot wake from now,
gently dozing,
saved from the hard thumps of
keys and inner universe;
what a cliffhanger
jewel gone,
no fingerprint,
waiting
for the last blank pages
to speak,
but they are my own whispers,
thinking you into eternity.
for roger, 8-29-2019, NYC JH
Who was that street poet? His name was Joe Holmes, and later than summer, I wrote to him.
Dear Joe: I am still reeling from the amazing poem you created for me in honor of the third anniversary of Roger’s death. It was a profound experience for me to meet you. You have helped me understand something I didn’t really know how to put into words about how my writer boy’s flights of wordplay and imagination were a coping mechanism inside the seeming-safe and protective shell he created for himself.
Roger was so sensitive to sensations, feelings, and we could see from a very early age how this sensitivity made his life complicated. He crafted fantasy worlds that empowered his friends. He was a real magician, indeed.
He hid his drug use from us so easily because we only wanted to see the best in him. We didn’t know how to make sense of the changes in his personality, but we made excuses for him because we loved him. He was so young.
Roger was determined to show us how capable he was - and he was indeed so very capable. He accomplished his highest hopes and dreams by age 23. Yet, if only we had not been so stupid and blind, perhaps he would be here today, happily tip-tapping on his typewriter, immersed in yet another story world.
Instead, the universe gave me you. Writing poetry for passers-by in New York City, you show your love and compassion to all the wandering souls whose hearts are broken. You speak for the dead. Those of us lost and hurting, needing words to heal the pain. Thank you for the great gift of yourself.
I will always treasure these words, your words. You have helped me find my Ghostman. Thank you for channeling his spirit through your own complex lived experience. I know that Roger would have admired your creativity. Your fine poetic gift has artfully blanketed our family’s pain by honoring the mystery of life, death, and the creative process. Your effort has helped us rediscover our treasure, our lost jewel of a son, in ways that transcend pain and loss and time and memory.
Love, Renee
Joe wrote back to me, explaining a bit of his unique genius and special insight on my ghostman.
September 5, 2019
Dear Renee:
Thank you so much. I am also so grateful we have met. I spent a good chunk of the rest of the day wondering what it meant to have connected in this way with you and your family. I couldn't help but feel something spooky about it all, as if I was attempting to speak on his behalf somehow, an accidental, ad-hoc street psychic.
As a fellow writer and recovering opiate addict (according to Amazon I was born one year before him, too), it's all got a small whiff of divine providence to it. Regardless, if I have provided some comfort to you in your loss, my right-to-exist-on-earth is at least earned for another span.
I've compared street poetry in the past to speaking for the dead, or “ghostwriting,” in the best sense of that word. Considering our similarities, his novels centering around a ghostman, the etymologies of the word 'genius' denoting a sort of ghost that moves through people, and (a detail I did not mention!) your poem being the first piece I had ever written in NYC, having just arrived in the city to lurch forward in my own (much slower moving) writing career... well,
it's all too many synchronicities for my rational mind to hold down.
All I can say is that I'm very grateful to have met you, and I felt in your love for your son something of my own mother's love for me. How easily she could have been in your shoes. How fortunate I am to pay the good karma of my survival forward.
Many, many, many hugs to you. I am so sorry for your loss.
Joe