David, you... you...

Tonight I'm reading at the Art Bar's Canadian Poets Night. At least, I think that's what it's called. A whole bunch of poets have been invited to read the works of another Canadian poet. It was a tough choice, that's for sure. My first impulse was to read from W.W.E. Ross, a really interesting minimalist poet who wrote most of his stuff, I think, in the 1930s. I liked the idea of a Ross reading a Ross. But then I decided on David UU, the writing name of David W. Harris, a visual, sound, and linear poet who started up grOnk with bpNichol. He also had a few of his own imprints and magazines, including Fleye and Berkeley Horse. David killed himself in 1994. At his wake, I read the poem he had contributed to my "e-less" issue of Dwarf Puppets on Parade; I think I'll read that again tonight, along with a few other pieces. On David's shelf of current reading when he died was a copy of The Hermit of 69th Street, the nearly unreadable novel Jerzy Kosinski wrote before killing himself. Nearby was a Stuart Ross collection, a jwcurry collection, and a bpNichol collection.

No one talks much about David UU these days; he never achieved the acclaim of a Nichol or a bissett. I hope that what I read tonight might intrigue a couple of people. But I think it'll just feel good letting some of his work meet with the air again.

Over and out.