On Hearing From Tom Hart That Matthew Courtney Is Dead
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him.
1.
It would have been kinder if he had been allowed to enjoyOne more summer, one last summer."Summertime, when the living is easy."A few months more with which to settle his affairsTo have one last laugh before turning his back on usOn another wet and punishing fall.
2.
He lived longer than any of us might have expectedAnd, died before any of us would have wanted.There were still prizes and acclaim to claimBadges for heroism and, of course,The feather in his capA Times' Sunday Magazine feature article."Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs?"
3.
Ours is a grim little world; more knot than pastureAnd, he was a grim little skull of a man who would lose all his teeth.Before he lost his bite.
He hailed from Portland, Oregon, Catholic OregonAnd, if that green place betrayed him or he betrayed itHe spent much of his life seeking forgivenessOn his knees, on unforgiving pavement.
He was a poet, a clever, too clever by a half, loudmouth poetBald, exposed, the man-child pointing to the naked emperor.The man talked too much.
He was a street artist, too, a serious artistDrawing for years on loose pages of the WSJ and the TimesTen thousand hours divining with Sharpies and colored markers.On pieces of cardboard, and subway announcementsWood planks, too. Whatever gusts of exhaust threw at him.
He hailed from Portland, Oregon, Catholic OregonAnd, if that green place betrayed him or he betrayed itHe spent much of his life seeking forgivenessOn his knees, on unforgiving pavement.
He was a poet, a clever, too clever by a half, loudmouth poetBald, exposed, the man-child pointing to the naked emperor.The man talked too much.
He was a street artist, too, a serious artistDrawing for years on loose pages of the WSJ and the TimesTen thousand hours divining with Sharpies and colored markers.On pieces of cardboard, and subway announcementsWood planks, too. Whatever gusts of exhaust threw at him.
4.
Poor Yorick of Prince Street, a purposeful disagreeable manA grinning, terrible, impulsive punster,Performer, provocateur, a crowd-pleasing clown.Content, contented to be content.
Is there a specific moment in time when a man's life turns to Hell?Toward Hell? Down, downThat long, too damn long, descent downDown to Hell?
He was a gymnast with words,He spun them, turned and twisted themWhile squatting for years on, and around, Prince StreetBetween Greene and Broadway.
Drawing self-portraits, poorly disguisedSay, no eyes, closed eyes, open eyes, bright eyedThe artist as an exotic.Inspired by the African masks, Picasso found irresistible.
On the page, above, below the fold were strangers, strange men,often sporting a hatThat sat lightly on their heads like Sinatra's did.
In art as in life, the man was another, otherAnd it had to hurt.
And, he also drew skylines, which were rarely kind,Seen from the pavement, from his perchHis "Steps To Nowhere Gallery"Which turned out to be sadly propheticA pun gone monstrously wrong.
He drew what he knewSold what he could.
Is there a specific moment in time when a man's life turns to Hell?Toward Hell? Down, downThat long, too damn long, descent downDown to Hell?
He was a gymnast with words,He spun them, turned and twisted themWhile squatting for years on, and around, Prince StreetBetween Greene and Broadway.
Drawing self-portraits, poorly disguisedSay, no eyes, closed eyes, open eyes, bright eyedThe artist as an exotic.Inspired by the African masks, Picasso found irresistible.
On the page, above, below the fold were strangers, strange men,often sporting a hatThat sat lightly on their heads like Sinatra's did.
In art as in life, the man was another, otherAnd it had to hurt.
And, he also drew skylines, which were rarely kind,Seen from the pavement, from his perchHis "Steps To Nowhere Gallery"Which turned out to be sadly propheticA pun gone monstrously wrong.
He drew what he knewSold what he could.
5.
Ours is a grim little world, breeding grim little people.Damn poetry, the arts, fashion, and theaterAnd, buried treasure, unearthed every season.
Did I say the man was an actor?Exaggerated features, gestures, God, he was good.
So, why was he left behindTo die a little grim skull of a manA slow motion, momento mori.
$20 bought a drawing and as many insults as you could bear.Golden tongued, foul-mouthed, honied tongue,Butter wouldn't melt in that mouth.
A vicious queen dying of AIDS, dying for years and yearsDying for laughs, dying for tears.
Prince Street's doorways were his atelier, stage, galleries.Sometimes he hid, perched like Oedipus's SphinxWound up, ready to pounce.
The clock, tick tock, his clock was always ticking soOnce his tongue was sprung, it sprangAnd he'd take off after itMore ham than harm.
You ended a harangue by turning your back,And going about your business.
He particularly enjoyed the attention of tourists, who were taughtTo hold their tongues, while he tickled them with hisMinistrations.
This fool was no fool.He knew on what side his bread was buttered.
Did I say the man was an actor?Exaggerated features, gestures, God, he was good.
So, why was he left behindTo die a little grim skull of a manA slow motion, momento mori.
$20 bought a drawing and as many insults as you could bear.Golden tongued, foul-mouthed, honied tongue,Butter wouldn't melt in that mouth.
A vicious queen dying of AIDS, dying for years and yearsDying for laughs, dying for tears.
Prince Street's doorways were his atelier, stage, galleries.Sometimes he hid, perched like Oedipus's SphinxWound up, ready to pounce.
The clock, tick tock, his clock was always ticking soOnce his tongue was sprung, it sprangAnd he'd take off after itMore ham than harm.
You ended a harangue by turning your back,And going about your business.
He particularly enjoyed the attention of tourists, who were taughtTo hold their tongues, while he tickled them with hisMinistrations.
This fool was no fool.He knew on what side his bread was buttered.
6.
Spleen is not a word you often hear, here.He must have known his BaudelaireAnd been influenced by him, because for yearsHe dragged himself out of the dark and then into the lightAnd back into the dark. Back and forth,
Grim the subway ride back to Brooklyn, to his Godforsaken roomGrim the subway ride back to Soho, for showtimes.
Tick and tock,His clock was tickingBut until he was clocked, our grim little poetOffered bits of his spleen to any of the grim littlePedestrians, shopgirls and boys, tourists,Whoever held out their handsAs if receiving communion.
Cock-centered, cocksure, cockatoo, cockadoodlingLapsed Catholic, melancholic, metaphorOur fool, unbowed by the last humiliationOut the next day to receive the next blowAnd the inevitableNext blowAfter that.That's showbiz.
Until he wasn't where, anywhere, we expected to find him."Poor Yorick, I knew him"One of the most photographed men in New York.And, likely, the City's best-selling artist.Our fool was no fool.
Grim the subway ride back to Brooklyn, to his Godforsaken roomGrim the subway ride back to Soho, for showtimes.
Tick and tock,His clock was tickingBut until he was clocked, our grim little poetOffered bits of his spleen to any of the grim littlePedestrians, shopgirls and boys, tourists,Whoever held out their handsAs if receiving communion.
Cock-centered, cocksure, cockatoo, cockadoodlingLapsed Catholic, melancholic, metaphorOur fool, unbowed by the last humiliationOut the next day to receive the next blowAnd the inevitableNext blowAfter that.That's showbiz.
Until he wasn't where, anywhere, we expected to find him."Poor Yorick, I knew him"One of the most photographed men in New York.And, likely, the City's best-selling artist.Our fool was no fool.