Nazis in the Clouds

A recurring theme
of his books,
and indeed a recurring story
in his books,
is the lingering elusive presence
of Nazis in the Americas,
not the imagined bogymen
of political fantasies
but actual real Nazis
who fled to the Americas
to start over in anonymity
and because that was possible
and because he didn't let them
slip into the amnesia of history,
it's a reminder of what we want to forget,
to ignore,
to pretend was never a reality
before during and after the war,
that it was possible to be a Nazi
and a part of the mainstream
without anyone worrying
what they were up to,
the gross habits of ogres
as they exist
in the real world,
in the Americas
and elsewhere,
performing their daredevil aerial stunts
both literal and metaphorical,
while poets observe
from a distance,
and ensure they are never
forgotten,
much less
forgiven.

All the Short Books

Selfishly,
Belano vindicates me
as a writer
since I have written,
recently,
a lot of short works,
and the fact that he did too
validates the form,
at least for me,
and that's a reason to love him too.

Still Can't Believe, Part 2

Belano considered himself a poet.

Belano considered himself a poet,

and yet

while I'm glad he did

because that version of him

wrote everything he did

which was all the prose

I love so much,

while considering himself a poet,

which produced the attitude,

which produced the vantage point,

which produced the savage detectives

which produced the reputation,

which produced the platform,

which produced the masterpiece,

which produced the version of me

which fell in love with him.

So I think it worked out nicely,

which produces a version of me
which produces a periodic urge

to read his poetry.

But I still consider him

on the basis of his prose.

Still Can't Believe, Part 1

Still can't believe

he's dead,

and was dead

before I ever read him,

although since I considered him

a classic novelist

from the moment I read him,

I suppose

it's only fitting.

Still,

I still can't believe

that he's dead.

Although

many people complain,

now,

somehow,

how many books

a dead author

has released

in the years

since his death.

They complain,

but I certainly never will

no matter how many more
there might be

or when it ends.

As morbid as this might sound

I would be happy 

if I died

before this happens.

That would be funny.

It really would.

The Savage Poet

I address him
as he presented himself,
as the savage poet,
the savage detective,
as Robert Belano,
but of course
he went by another name
as he blazed his trails
through literary history,

and I wish I were him,
as deranged as that sounds,
I wish I were him,
however complicated
and cut short
that savage life of his
proved to be, 

I wish I were him

if only to know

what it was like

to be him,

to be the savage

to howl at the world

to disrupt the mediocrities

of the world

to thumb my nose

and put out my thumb

to the world around me,

to see the world around me

is something other than prose,

than pictures,
to live a life half as impression

as the trail he blazed

so fearlessly,

at least in the words
he left behind.