In November I lost my food stamps, the computer said I did not exist In November I lost my best friend who said I did not exist In November I lost my manuscripts and felt as if I did not exist In November I sent 2 postcards to my mother who wrote back saying she had not heard from me and DID I STILL EXIST? In November I paid the telephone bill and received a final notice for non-payment In November my girlfriend accused me of unreality and infrequency with a tendency to dematerialize on weekends and holidays even Jewish ones and stormed out leaving a sinkful of dirty dishes and linen blackened by her feet, souvenirs of blood and tobacco burns. In November my checks bounced, mail stopped arriving, the toilet clogged, the cat chocked, my poems were rejected, I got worms, the clap and psoriasis of the anus, all I needed was an earthquake to prove my destiny was not to be overlooked, and one was long overdue according to the latest reliable heavenly and scientific sources. In November I looked for all my published works in City Lights Bookstore and found only my early translations of Belli, I did not exist on the bookshelves altho’ a thesis to prove that I did exist was written by some kid in Arkansas, 300 pages that nobody ever read called Orpheus Unacclaimed: Harold Norse, So What? In November I gave a poetry reading which was so well advertised one day in advance that 5 people actually came, 4 of them drunk and cantankerous, the fifth had lost his way to the toilet, and one of the drunks kept asking, “Tell me how to win! I’m sick of being a loser!” and I answered from years of eminence: “Be invisible!” In November when I crossed the street with the light a grayhaired man in a Cadillac looking like Spiro Agnew tried to run me down and swore because he missed me, something about Law and Order. In November I screamed at the neighbors upstairs who played stereo hard rock all day and night that crashed thru the floorboards but they said I was a liar it was music not noise and I was a fink for complaining and the one who practiced karate over my bedroom from midnight until 3am said why didn’t I take up yoga and gain deliverance from bad karma so they went on playing their rock and hammering on the floor and stomping in boots and breaking bricks until 4am as I did not exist and In November I gave thanks for all my blessings without a turkey, with one good ear, high cholesterol, 59¢, 145 lbs. and 2 good balls.
Poetry Foundation: A poet and memoirist, Harold Norse is best known for his associations with the Beat Generation and the gay liberation movement. Mentored by William Carlos Williams, Norse wrote poetry that employs the American idiom of everyday speech to reflect on themes of travel, identity, and sexuality. Williams once called Norse “the best poet of his generation.”
Love this (and what a name!). I thought I knew all the esoteric beat generation crew but clearly not. He's got Beat Generation Bukowski vibes. November woebegone as he may have been, his 2 good balls served him well for he outlasted the other best minds of his generation.
Never mind the high cholesterol and anal psoriasis, Harold, you made it 92.
Here's to your posthumous recognition
His last words reportedly were “The end is the beginning”