exhibit A

I read Berrigan's longish poem "The Boke". one can use it with a preface of "this is what I mean" re Berrigan. it's a narrative of sorts, tho what is going on can't absolutley be gleaned from reading. the notes explain that Berrigan derived it from an article by James Dickey in The New Yorker. such provenance is interesting in a tech way, certainly I wondered where the hell did this come from? as I read. but worrying or wondering about such can be distracting. early on there's reference to lsd, which hangs over the piece. it's quite trippy in an engulfing way. it is so distinctly a Berrigan poem, despite its derivation from Dickey. the he in the poem is implacably Berrigan. that is, it is voice, and carrying, and this image, and all that. it's a sense that Personism could be functional even if you're not O'Hara, or even if you're not Berrigan, or Mayer, etc. you can bring it from that standpoint, and not be oppressive. Berrigan's artistry (yeah, I hate that word too) exists in what? Silliman says the demotic. hey, Chaucer reached into that, and Dante did. it's a heady confidence that Berrigan has. a Captain Tripps sort of confidence actually, or shaman psychopomp's. he just goes with it (god how prosaic I am). I'm not saying that the drugs wrote his poems, but the ability to function on the drug is the same as his existing in the poem's becoming. it's a crazy ass courage he runs with. his senses are alert, certainly eyes and ears. and the internal editor is sensitive enough just to step back. I'm making general Berrigan remarks but they apply to this poem. it's a breezy read depicting the acivities of this he who is involved in a poetry reading. fascinating, lovely. and this is a wonderful book.