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The Ghost Poet’s Memorial

Jesse S. Hanson

    His grandfather told me to mention once again that we are not here in disrespect for the old traditions. But the family has chosen to remember and to learn more about the life rather than to forget. His grandfather says, “If we forget those who have gone, maybe we will also become reclusive and forget those few of us who are left.” So we are saying his name here and remembering. I have been asked by the family to speak of my experience with him, since I had a certain relationship with him and he was absent from your association for so long.
    I met Thomas in the Federal Penitentiary. I was very fortunate, in the first year of my graduate work, undertaken en route to my future as a paranormal psychologist, to be part of a research team on a project that was implemented within the mental unit of the prison.
    There were three of us involved with the project. We were investigating, if I can use that term loosely, the reports of a guru, who was purported to be a truly remarkable personality, having both the qualities of a charismatic and mystic sage on the one hand and those of a mentally disturbed patient/inmate on the other. The relationship of this guru with the other inmates, and the effect that he had upon them, was the focus of our research. Our mutual friend, Thomas, who in the will of the Creator has now left this mortal condition, was one of a very interesting group of fellows who had, not only come to see him as their spiritual leader, but also actually chummed around with this person, within the confines of the prison mental ward.
    For the purposes of our research, we conducted countless interviews with the inmates. I remember, in one of my first conversations with Thomas, I mentioned to him that I’d recently heard some people claim that Taoism is like Native American philosophy and I asked him what he thought of that notion. Thomas told me, quite bluntly, that there is no Native American philosophy to his knowledge, and that “that’s all a crock of shit”. I didn’t go into it further, but I assumed he meant, no collective Native American philosophy. Nevertheless, Thomas conceded that he could, as he put it, “dig the Tao”.
    The few short months that I spent with those men in that institution were very painful for me, in coming to terms with certain realities of their lives, but the time was also inspirational and unforgettable. I will tell you, you who are his family, you who are his friends, and you who are friends of his family, and without exaggeration or melodrama, that the memory of Thomas is burnt like a pyrograph into the passageways of my mind. His gaunt, round face with the scarce beard stubble and head-banded hair that stopped short of his shoulders, brought to my mind the photos I’d seen of Geronimo and Cochise and Cochise’s son, Naiche.

    When I asked Thomas if he would talk about himself, if he would tell me a story about himself, he told me he’d have to think about it. He said there might be something.
    It was a week later that he came up to me and told me that there was something he’d like to tell. Something from the old days, he said. He asked me to come to his cell so he could tell it in private. I always carried a recorder and with Thomas’s permission I recorded our conversation so I’ll tell it, mostly I’ll read it to you, like it happened.
    It is noteworthy that Thomas, in speaking about drugs, lumped peyote in with LSD and other hallucinogens. I mention this, because I realize that there are those who could take issue with this sort of lumping, and I want to clarify that it is the way Thomas expressed it, and not something that I have done to manipulate his meaning, or from any agenda of my own.

my interview with Thomas Small

Ozwald Renewski

    Thomas begins,

    “It was a funny thing about drugs in those days. You didn’t so much make a conscious decision to take some drug, you know. It would just be available and like you’d heard of it, but then there it is... and maybe you’d hesitate for a second. But you don’t know nothin about a drug till you take it. Hell, that’s basically the way people smoke their first cigarette, take their first drink, whatever. And you’re never quite the same after. You gain somethin, you lose somethin. It’s just that with some things, it seems like a bigger deal. You take acid, eat peyote, your whole perspective can sure as shit change. A lot of drugs feed on your low tendencies, work on your will power, make you addicted. But acid, peyote, hallucinogens, they blow your mind. You figure out quick that you’ve had everything wrong all your life. Only thing is any new conclusions you come to when you’re on the stuff... Oops, wrong again. You know that what you knew, you don’t know, but you get in deeper when you know you don’t know and cannot know any damn thing at all. You could be wrong about that too, but who the hell knows. You know what I mean, Ozwald?”
    He puts his hands up, shrugs his shoulders. Smiles an unknowing smile at me, goes on.
    “In those days I wanted to be a poet. I wanted to express truth and I wanted the life of a poet. Be careful what you want, man. If we ever see any truth in this life, we tend to wish we hadn’t. Life’s a ghost story, I’m afraid. In those days I wanted to be a poet but I became a ghost. You might find something romantic in that. Some fools do. That’s cause they’re still babies, suckin at the world’s tit. Don’t know to be afraid a nuthin.
    It’s hard to swallow the pill, the idea of things bein bad and not good. All the fools are happy. Happy/sad. Happy/sad.

    I’d been hanging out on the street just getting to know everybody, sort of. The musicians, the poets and writers, all the artists and the crafts people. The winos and the addicts too. And the bag ladies, everybody. It was a scene. I was livin the life I figured I’d been born for. Hell I’m an Indian, what else should I do.
    He come up to me after a little gig I did at a health food buffet place. They let you sit up on a little stool in the corner and do your thing. Folksingers and poets. People’d eat, talk, maybe somebody’d pay attention. Maybe somebody’d give ya a tip. Musicians could do pretty good out on the street, but people mostly think you’re crazy if you stand on the corner reciting poetry.
     I’d seen im around. Seen im walkin with this way pretty maid. Some of the vendors holler’n ‘Hey Bobby’ at him like old pals. Like he knew everybody. Never had no personal communication with him before this time though. He said, ‘You’re pretty good.’ He said ‘You just need ta learn how to talk.’
    I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. He tore off on a rant that sounded pretty much like gibberish to me. I guess it was supposed to be an example of how to talk. At that point another guy I’d met came up and after a minute, he asked us if we wanted to go smoke a joint. We said, “Okay”
    The whole arrangement of the market was built on the edge of the cliff, following the curve of the bay, behind. Every hundred yards or maybe a little less, there were long wooden flights of stairs going down to the street below.
    About halfway down the hill we left the stairs to the right and made our way along the hillside to a place between the supports for the railroad bridge that went over the crescent concave of the bay. It was a common place to go for smoking dope I guess and the winos and others used it for passing a bottle around too. But it was just us there at that time. We smoked the dooby as a train went over, which Bobby and I agreed was a kind of rare occurrence but Kim, our Vietnamese friend with the weed said he’d seen them every now and then.
    About two thirds of the way through the doob, Bobby started off on a poem without any introduction or request from us to hear one or any request from him if we wanted to hear one. He took off out of the gate fast, firing out streams of images and animating with hands and arms and legs. He hit full stride within moments and he would look at you and then turn away or look up at the bridges, or out to the bay. When he’d look at you it was intense and every word burned your consciousness and triggered your memory. I looked at Kim and he was right there too. And some of the words burned like little flicks of a knife that cut the skin and make it bleed and other words hit like hammers of fists that knock you back and take the wind out of you, confuse you and rattle your mind. I think now that he was not doing anything different than the rant he’d started outside the café, but it took either the drug or the situation to open my mind to it.
    After a timeless period in the hazy vacuum of that space, the poem stopped. We stood there, Bobby sat down on the massive length of concrete that the big steel frame was bolted to. We looked at the bay. We looked around. Silent. The pigeons burbling above. The cars motoring below. Ferry coming in and a big cargo ship just sitting out there. Almost distinguishable voices drifting up from the open restaurants on the street.
    Bobby said he had to go meet his girlfriend so he left.
    After he was gone I realized I was overcome, not only with awareness of the realities of Bobby’s words, but sadly, depressingly, I was green jealous.
    ‘How can I even think about being a poet?’ I blurted out to Kim.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I mean, I see now what a poet is. I mean, that wasn’t a poem; I’d say that was just straight from his soul. It just poured out of him like out of a freaking prophet or something.’
    ‘It was amazing.’ Kim agreed.
    ‘And me, I agonize over these lines, spend hours, days trying to come up with just the right thing. Maybe come up with a dozen lines. What the hell am I doing. Who am I kidding... that I pretend to be a poet.’
    ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself man.’ Kim says to me. ‘ I guess he’s been doing it for a long time.’ Then he adds. ‘I’ve even been writing a few lines myself these days.’
    ‘Thanks, I appreciate it. But I still feel discouraged.’
    I was on an ego thing you know. And I saw that Bobby, who acted all flamboyant and loud and got the girls and got everybody’s attention probably brought no more ego tripping to it” Thomas makes the sign of quotation marks with his fingers when he says the word it, “than I did.

    A couple of days later I saw Kim and we went down and burned another one, and he was a dope dealer you know, though he looked like a kid, and he was on acid but he was one of those personalities who could function outwardly like normal. I never could understand that. But Kim is telling me how he feels that LSD is a gift from God and how he wants to spread it around and open people’s eyes and stuff. That sounded pretty good, as I hadn’t really gotten that impression with my limited experience with the stuff.
    As it went, he gave me a few hits to take with me and spread the word and so I had an opportunity to broaden my horizons once again.”
    Here Thomas gives me another unknowing look with a little unknowing wink. He asks me to get him a drink, since he doesn’t go near the fountain, for some reason that he doesn’t explain, so I get him one from the fountain in a plastic glass that he keeps on his person. He drinks slowly, long and noisy. Then he’s ready to talk again.
    “We ate the acid on the bus ride to Bobby’s apartment. There were five of us, including Bobby’s girlfriend who didn’t take any. There was also my friend Garland, who was a transient, originally from Philadelphia, and his friend, Rick Littlefoot, who I didn’t really like. The guy was friendly but he was like into black arts crap and he sure wasn’t somebody I could see chumming up with. I’d met the guy’s ol’ lady once and she gave me the creeps too.
    About an hour after we got to the apartment, I was so blasted. We were drinking beer and rolling cigarettes and listening to Leonard Cohen but that got old as we’d started trippin so we put on some old blues that was working for us better.
    It seems like something comes out about a person’s true colors. Well, maybe the truth comes out and maybe it don’t. Maybe it’s all imagination, who the hell knows. After awhile, to me, people start lookin like Gumby and Pokey only not cute. But them black arts people I mentioned, their hard edges and their hard words just seemed to get harder. I was becoming a little overly aware of everybody’s hard edges, I’d say. But you can’t turn back, you know. So as I’d feel ever more sensitive to life and cognizant, I guess you could say, of a miracle of life, at the same time other folks are sharpenin their blades and flexing muscles, wielding their bludgeons. I mean I’m tryin to be a flower child here, and they with their canines dripping as they lift their faces from the belly of the beast.
    Later, I remember Bobby talking to me and Garland and then Garland is gone and it’s just Bobby and me and it’s like he’s giving me some kind of class or something. But he goes on like explaining to me how the true nature of things are like ghosts and spirits and he’s telling me, ‘This is spiritual’ cause he knows I’m looking for the spiritual. And as things get crazier, it seems like he’s mocking me, ‘This is spiritual’, ‘This is spiritual’. And he’s showing me these scars on his chest and saying how he used to get down when he was into Satanism but now he’s gone back to the Sundance and the old ways, somethin like that. And he’s got this impression of himself, it seems as a poet, as an agent from the dark, come to warn folks, come to show em the reality. Anyway, it must have got to be the middle of the night somehow and everybody seemed to be asleep, but me and Bobby. Or they left, I don’t even remember.
    Bobby looks like anybody’s incarnation of some beast from hell. He has buffalo horns, huge saber tooth fangs and a face all perverted that you can’t even look at. I figure he’ll probly eat me or worse, but we decide to go out walking around and so we do that. Me and the ‘many colored Beast’, walking downstairs out of a dive apartment in the slums. It’s not just me. It may be acid inspired, but he knows what he is. Lets me know he knows. As morning comes closer, his horns are getting shorter as well as his fangs. His long shaggy hair and mane, gradually turning back into Bobby’s long black hair.
    But he’s one who rarely ever shuts up. You just want some peace, after being up all night, and you think you’ve had more than enough, but he goes on and on. Bragging about his homemade hooch, harassing his girlfriend, harassing me. After breakfast we hop the bus and go back downtown. He’s got the idea we’re soul mates. Of one mind. I know we’re not, but it feels good somehow, in my delirium, to have a soul mate, though I had never expected it to be the devil, if I did have one.
    It’s nine o’clock in the morning and there’s drunks stumbling out of the bars, red men, yellow men, white man, black men, whatever color. They get off to a good start down there. And he’s raving away and they’re all in perfect tune and they seem to get every word he says and everybody’s dancin around like their ship just come in. The dance of the winos. Bobby’s the music, he’s in his element.”

    Thomas seems tired now. I ask him if he is. He says he is.
    I say ‘We can continue later’.
    He says, “I aint told ya nothing good yet.”
    I say ‘That’s a very promising prospect, hearing something good.’
    He says, “Well, I wanna tell ya somethin good.”
    I say, ‘Good.’

    Two days later, Thomas approaches me that he wants to go on with his story. I’m glad to hear it. He wants to go into the big room this time, which we do and he leads me to a bench near the back wall.
    “There probly aint so much more to tell.” he starts out.
    I find it interesting that someone who spent at least a portion of his life, living the life of a poet, is in the habit of using such poor grammar. At one point I think it made me question the authenticity of his story, but I got over it.
    He’s looking around, like he’s looking for the words. “There probly aint that much more,” he repeats, “but maybe there’s some more.”
    I don’t say anything.
    “I didn’t want anything to do with Bobby after that. I didn’t decide that he was flat out evil or anything. I guess I was convinced that he did see himself as some kind of messenger from hell. That he was serving the people in that capacity, as perverted as it was.
    But I couldn’t be around him. I sure as hell couldn’t handle it. Somehow, someway, he’d got to me though and I found his way to have a certain romance. I think now that it’s in league with, it’s a similar romance that gullible people have found down through time in hero-worshiping crime figures and cutthroats, like Robin Hood, Jesse James, etc. Bobby wasn’t a criminal, don’t get me wrong on that. He wasn’t out to hurt people. But he took his energy, his zest for his poetry, from the darkness. I do think his intentions were good. But he had nothing to offer. Isn’t that the way? Everybody’s carryin some warning, aint they? Don’t go down this road. Don’t do what I done. But they aint none of em can tell you what road to go down.
    I killed a man. He was goin ta rob me and he threatened me and I felt threatened and I shot him and I stabbed him over and over. I was pretty freaked out. Self defense, but the law didn’ care. Illegal weapons and excessive use of violence. Also, possession of an illegal substance, namely amphetamine. I’d gone pretty far down the road by that time. I guess my poetry’d taken a pretty dark turn as well.
    But that was the beginning for me. What seemed like it could be the end was the beginning. Some folks would have us believe that all roads lead to hell. Some would go the other way and say they all lead us home. I don’t know as one’s more true than the other. I was bounced around within the prison system a bit before I got here. Here I met George.”
    Here Thomas is referring to the prison guru that I mentioned earlier.
    “All the stuff that went before is only water under the bridge now. I guess George is the real poet. Bobby only seems like a poor troubled kid with a huge ego to me now. I asked George about him. George said to forget about him. I’m okay with that. George has to remember everybody, why should I worry?”

    Thomas seems to be done with his story at this point and sits, hands on his knees, head down, silent. “Earlier, you referred to yourself as a ghost.” I remind him.
    “No, no, no, ya got me wrong. I didn’t say I was well. No, I’m a ghost alright. I’ve never got back and I aint comin back. So don’t think you pinned one on me, Ozwald.” he hasn’t raised his voice but his demeanor has suddenly become very severe.
    I tell him I didn’t mean to pin one on him.
    He says, “The hell you didn’t.”
    I say, “Ok, maybe I had some small motivation like that for saying it.”
    He says, “Damn sure you did... but I forgive you for it.” and with that forgiveness given, he gets up and walks away. I am left to my own conclusions.
    Ultimately I concluded, or rather I came to the personal theory, that Thomas was convinced that his guru, George, didn’t care whether he was a ghost or a man.

    Please allow me to read a poem written by Thomas, which he kindly shared with me and gave me permission to copy.

wild Indians

    we’ve run from the old world
    we’ve show’d no respect for it
their god of work
their broken spirits
their fear of law
their stiff upper lips
    we gave back the poison
    we had no taste for it
the dead food
the fine spirits
the man made materials
the medicine cabinet
    to the hills we’ve escaped
    to the stars we’ve flown
    to the sea
from their precious idol, tax and spend
from their beloved deity, on vacation
from their holy scripture, fire and brimstone
from their sacred pilgrimage to vault and casket
    we’ve turned back the clocks
    we’ve thrown the clocks to hell
it’s all start to finish
it’s all live and die
it’s all lie to live
where all stand to fall
    we’ve run from the old world
    we’ve show’d no respect for it
their guns and drums
their blood and thirst
their right to might
their going forward curse
    when the gate was left open
    we turned and fled
oh sun and stone
oh flesh and bone
oh curse and wailing
oh revenge and failing

    we’ve run on off roads, so deep and rutted
    we’ve run barefoot and pregnant and crying and mudded
    we’ve stopped when the old ones are too sick and coughing
    we’ve stopped when the young ones are vomiting from drinking
    we’ve stopped to catch our breath when it is bleeding
    we’ve stopped to bury those who no longer needed breathing
    we’ve stopped to try and remember our languages and speaking
    we’ve stopped to try and forget our world that we loved...
    we’ve stopped to try and see where we were going
    we’ve stopped to pray for help and showing...
    we’ve run on blind and unknowing.

The poem “wild Indians” was originally published by itself at Bring the Ink Journal.

“The Ghost Poet’s Memorial” is an excerpt from the novel manuscript, “Song of George/Portrait of an Unlikely Holy Man” which has just been accepted for publication by All Things That Matter Press.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

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