 35 people wrote this poem. I'm gonna name them at the end of the poem. Some of them are in the audience and some of them can't be in the audience. Al Young Collab. In April of 1965, I enjoyed the first of a remarkable and continuing series of non-drug-induced mystical experiences that I consider thus far to be the high points in my life. I no longer feel compelled, as I once did, to speak of these experiences directly. I have learned quite painfully that most people are not especially eager to hear of such things and many, in fact, feel threatened or frightened by them. For me, the writing of poetry is a spiritual activity. Poetry should be the music of love. Song, a dance, the joyously heartbreaking flight of the human spirit through inner and outer space in the search of itself. That's from Al Young. I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. Falstaff, Henry IV, part two, which of course is true about Al. If Al Young were a baseball team, he'd win the World Series, a non. And this is the way I started the poem. I suggested the first line should be, Al Young is great and we go on from there. Al Young is great. He's a star radiating love and creativity into our lives. His Southern drawl, his use of language, his style and coolness. Let us open the door and be charmed. Al's words are bulletproof. Al is great for sharing his jumping for spring attitude with every joyful breath he takes. An OBG, oldie but goodie. I love Al. Together listening in silence. What keeps Al Young, despite the gray, that irrepressible sense of play? Al is great, Al is choice. Al writes poetry that illuminates with a gentle light and a passionate voice. He's the laureate of everywhere. For Al Young, reading his poems again, he stands before me like a gentle giant, going back in time, new promise of a deepness, a mystery his words unfold. I hear from Sidney J. Pritiman that the world and its songs as sung by Al Young is so alive, you'd almost think you knew where Angelina is. I call him Mr. Suede, a gentle man of letters. Life, like ice, can be hard, cold. But Al, arms outstretched, skates. What a treat to be Al Young and look into a mirror. Al Young is great the way the day is great. It begins in glory and sees him tonight as the sun grows dark, still glowing, still great as the air is great, preserving time for music. He weren't going down that big road by himself. He was going with them angels and they was blowing the blues. Each day our hands discover the blue emerald river heart. We dive into its clear pool, spirit laughing our river current. Al's voice sings a long rich jazz note deep and smooth of all the places he touches on in this world and loves well. Al is the music of the blue train. The quiet in my cupped palms, the voice dreaming my past. His warm welcome tied to universal love, his full expression of a shared humanity unabated by any other music. And it's there right away, every time, every time. At the number 18 AC Transit bus, Al and I chat poetry. Young woman listening speaks up tentatively. Al invites her in. She and I, his equal, his heart that big. I love Al Young's voice, his generous way of being in the world. His body of work I trust will always be read. From drowning in the sea of love, Al's own words. How could you ever let a song go out of your heart when you are already song? Oh, the beautiful changes. Young found Al found Mingus, a memoir or two. Poems that light up the mind like a field of fireflies. Lingering images that haunt the mind like a restless ghost. Space inside a poem was smaller before you came. With the muse at home and Al Young's young heart, in the depth most of darkness, a sunlight as if by magic. When I met his eyes, there was no end to him. Al is a master chef who can manipulate language and emotion by adding pinches of rhyme and reason that adds flavor and seasoning to his poetry stew. Al Young is greatest in understatement. Al's presence in our lives is a reminder of the divinity living in each of us sent with love from the deep south. His pure energy, a kindly fire, the immediate infinity in his eyes. Al sings April in Paris in his poem. All of us brought there by his bluesy words. Al Young, lion with a gentle roar, I salute you. December, season of gloom, the perpetual note sung by Al Young's mellow voice in low sea, just below the delta from which the dark issues. The words of Al Young leave no snow prints nor shadow. The arc of the moth hears an acronym for Al Young. Always loving years outpouring unlimited new graces. May 31st, Al's birthday, Walt Whitman's birthday. Once this day belonged only to our national poet, whose name means white man. Now another name to add to this day, a name that says young, a name that says African American, a name that says yes, we acknowledge Walt, but here in the middle of his name, W-A-L-T, comes Al. Oh, wait a minute. Holy applause, there's a bunch of people you need to applause here. You need to applaud for Jack Foley, Lucille Lang Day, Kim McMillan, Cable, Kevin Patrick Sullivan, Gary Goch, David Mason, Jake Berry, Jerome Rothenberg, Robert Hass, Floyd Salas, Claire Ortalda, Marvin R. Heemstra, Kevin Killian, Dave Holt, Chris Olander, Mary Marsha, Cassoli, Anita Andresi, Fred Dotsworth, Bobby Coleman, Kathleen Weaver, Bob Bouldock, Ziggy Lowenberg, A.D. Winans, Kim Schuck, Dan Brady, Jake Berry, Julie Rogers, Jamella, Pam Kingsbury, Brenda Hillman, Joyce Jenkins, Lenore Weiss, Ivan Argueas, Amos White, Elizabeth Nisparos, Jack Foley. Hi, John. Hi. You have a, I'm sorry? Oh, all right. Thank you. No, for him. Yeah, I understand. This is awkward. I didn't think it was for me. Oh, this is your acronym. Thank you so much. Oh, OK, wonderful. All right, beautiful. Thank you. Al, this is for you. And there's the acronym. All right, fantastic. OK, thank you so much. OK.