on the penultimate stair. Not fine. No leg there. (I just knew it would happen on these stairs. Thirteen of 'em. That's my unlucky number.) Halfway through freefall, brain clicks into action and remembers how to turn a plunge into a tumble. Still land hard and know one thing: This is not the coffee-pot station towards which I thought I had headed. Keerist. What the hell just happened? Think. Thinka thinka thinka. Wait a minute. Blood?
from Judith Fitzgerald: The Globe and Mail: The pen and the pain
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The important thing? [Cyril] Connolly provides food for thought, says quite a lot with few words. IMO, a jackal-designate, p'raps, I kinda like the idea poets still possess so much power . . . ah, no matter. Jackals come, jackals go, Jack Spicer's work will live forever. Don't take my word for it; rather, mosey on over to Talonbooks where you shall come upon one of the finest online interviews I hungrily gobbled these past few years, just posted. Delectable.
from Judith Fitzgerald: The Globe and Mail: In Other Words: Outstanding: Garry Thomas Morse, Ken Norris & Jack Spicer
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