Bottom Drawer

These are poems written by a human being. These are poems written by a man who sees demons and lives alone in a shack by the ocean. These are the poems of a loner and the loner is, finally, the only true creator. These are the poems of a loner who is capable of love but who has trouble like the non-loners--in finding it. These are lines put down true, and like lines put down true can make one feel so good one can laugh at times. Truth is jolly, truth is the sun of laughter. These are the poems like warm butter and the laughter of the mad. Richmond has broken through the wall. He lays it down. It's there. It's a gift, a curse and a signal. Steel in motion. Flash of night on rubber tires. The workings.

These are poems written by a human being. I have met many writers, mostly poets, and while some of their work was very fine, upon meeting the actual creators I became sickened by their rays, their voices, their manners. How clannish and bitchy they are. They eat together, sleep together, talk together, party together, plan together, breed together. They have no chance in the final arena of creation because they weaken each other with their agreements. The creator must finally be the loner. Richmond is almost always alone. You'll find no stereo going full blast at his place among the beerbottles and the gossipers and the wife-pinchers. There'll be an occasional woman bringing him a plate of meatballs and spaghetti, but next time around she'll be gone.

I like writers who are as strong as their work. That is the final test. I don't believe that if the work is strong and the man is weak that the work is all that matters. The strong man with the strong work endures. No publishers have come to Richmond. The publishers are wrong. This work will endure. The poems you read here will endure. Not all of them but many of them.

These are the poems of a human being, these are the poems of a loner, of a man with a face, of a man who can laugh, of a man who can walk across a room with easiness. These are the poems of a man who gives off good rays, strong rays. These are the poems of a man who deserves a good woman and has not found one yet. No matter. He'll go on. Someday he'll be found, some day he'll be discovered, the universities and the groupies and the parasites will embrace him. At the moment he's safe working. The longer he's ignored the better the poems will be. I wish him a long period underground. Meanwhile, to those of you who have fallen across this book, this is the gift to you, these poems. Take them, taste them, button them onto your shirts, glue them on the shithouse walls, mail them to your aunt in Des Moines, feel good, these are the poems of a human being, he's got it, and now you've got it. You're early and the power runs ripe.
amen.