 So, 40 years ago, I met this puckish person, this really kind of electrified personality with a beret and wearing a sweater, and his name was Chris Felver, and he introduced himself to me at the Savoy Tivoli, and I was producing what he calls a big-ass reading. I mean, it was a lot of people in that reading, and he said, I'm a photographer and I'd like to photograph the poets. Could you introduce me? And I said, no problem. And suddenly Jack Hirshman popped out of the sidewalk, followed by Lawrence Furlingetti, and four or five hundred other poets. And I guess I had to introduce them all. We did 40 years of work in one evening. The poet exposed, I was so happy to be a part of that, and I'm so happy Chris included me. You know, that idea of frozen in time, you see a photo of yourself. And I saw my photo there from 78, and I said, nearly you've aged well. But of course I have a vested interest in thinking that. Chris, where are you? So there you are, yeah. I hope you'll say a few words. At any rate, this is called, I Want to Be a Dead Poet. It's dedicated to Senol Erdogan, who has translated my book, Elegy for My Beat Generation, copies of which I have in my briefcase, if anyone. It's coming out in Turkish, and such is the world today that he showed up in North Beach at the Cafe Trieste a few months ago. And I thought, my God, a man from Turkey, and his girlfriend is Turkish. She works at a tech firm in Boston. And they sounded like a couple from Marin County. It was really something. I get tricked that way. I want to be a dead poet, alive beyond life, sitting at a corner cafe, like Paul Verlaine, sitting absence on a warm and rapturous summer day. I want to walk with Dante on his journey through hell. We stop for a picnic with Mrs. Satan, who brings fried chicken and potato salad, a cold, cruel wind climbs Tamil Pius as we eat. I want to be a dead poet and learn how to speak the great languages of the world, from Urdu to Bangla, a man of mountain words and desert commas, a brick man and a birch poet. Are the trees violent or violent today? Do you find a distant planet where violins fall like rain? I'm tired of being an old man, feedache, knees weak. They are taking away my license to drive. Rain threatens our beloved town. I'll stand, arms outstretched. I want to be a dead poet. Now it is 5 a.m. I grow frailer by the minute. Yet life is good. I love breathing. Every minute counts. Love is a pain in the ass, but we fall for it. We look like reindeer and our hearts beat like hedgehogs. Oh, to be a dead poet, beloved in eternity. Last week I walked with my partner in the deer park. We fed rabbits and waved to the baboons. I saw two dogs eating sugar from the hand of Gautama. Next week I'll climb the mountain to probe sturdy junipers where snow is like ash, purple lichen, clinches, obdurate rock. I would become sainted and wear a name tag at the literary convention. I want to be a dead poet because nothing else matters. Life depends on such a state. I'll count butterflies in the world to come, eat sounds of drummers until stones are lit like Roman candles. I want to take one last drive on Funston Beach, stroll the cliffs with my dog Orion who carries our planet. I need you, your love, your poised brain, skeleton keys, and dust of Oklahoma clinging to my skin. I want to be a dead poet and drink till my eyes spit in a favorite dive with Jack and Jill far into the night. I hope to meet you on a star when winter dies in my arms and you are witness to a descending goddess, our ancient and inhuman sun rising and sleeping for billions of years, tickling our cemetery dreams. Trees giggle, flowers wear pretty hats, death is proud and primitive. My dogs will wag their tails when I'm dead. Comet, Cosmo, Orion come along, jump into my arms, bring a weapon of leaves scattered on the grass. I want to sing for cosmic rust and ride a comet into the heart of our lonely bed where propped by a pillow I'll be eager to sleep. Thank you.