he was the only living writer I ever met who I truly
admired and he was dying when I met
him.
(we in this game are shy on praise even toward
those who do it very well, but I never had this
problem with C.B.)
I visited him several times at the
hospital (there was never anybody else
about) and upon entering his room
I was never sure if he was asleep
or?

"Charles?"

he was stretched there on that bed, pale
and all bone:
advanced
leukemia.

"Charles it's
Frank ..."

he would answer and then we would talk for
a short bit (mostly he would talk and I would
listen; after all, he was our mentor, our
god):

Post Office
Ham on Rye
Factotum

Bluebird

all the others.

to end up with mutilated poems
published after death
that's what killed
him (and you can thank that censoring, bastard editor John Martin for that.)

"the worst thing," he told me,
"is regretfulness, people end up so
regretful"

he wasn't regretful, although he had
every reason to
be ...

at the funeral I
met several of his editors, publishers
and drinking buddies.

"let's write something about
Charles," one of them
suggested.

"I don't think I can," I
told them.

and, of course, they never
did.

© Frank Silvanski