I found out that yesterday morning, Dwight Humphries vacated his body and is now lost to us.

You probably don't know about Dwight. But your children will. He's the only poet I've ever met that I'm certain will be in a Norton anthology someday. And well deserving of that. He was the consummate poet, and the most dedicated one I have ever known. In his apartment, he had rows upon rows of copies of periodicals where his work had appeared. He told me, a long time ago, that he had lost count of the number of poems he had had published–around 400. He also told me that he didn't query about submissions until at least a year had gone by–he had so much material, he didn't need to.

I had the pleasure of helping to get some of his work published. One of his poems was so devastating, I was weeping as I typeset it–it took everything I had to be able to see the keyboard well enough to finish.

I have some copies of his work, created originally on his typewriter. They are even more priceless now than they were before. I have one of his typewriters which he gave to me. I also have one of his pipes, carved into the shape of the head of Vlad Dracul.

He gave me lots of advice. Some of it I didn't take and I am glad of, some of it I should have taken and regret. I gave him a copy of my book–because he was one of the people I thanked by name. I am saddened that I never got to hear his reaction.

He was a poet. He was an inspiration. He was somewhat of a mentor. He was a Subgenius. He was psychotic. He was Airborne. And more than anything else, he was a leopard.

I am crying the only tears I will for him and I am crying them now. I will get them out of the way and get back to work, because that's the memorial Dwight would have wanted from me.

There is only winter before me,
And mortal cessation, but what of it?
I am a natural man; I expect to come
To a natural end; Earth is where I
Live and Earth consumes its flesh.
One exists, one dies.

What of it? The worst is done; where
Does one go when there is no safe place
In mind? When the innermost core is a
Dreaded, haunted room which radiates
Dysphoria through the frame? My thoughts
Are not inserted now–I have been to hell's
Depths and seen the face of my foe; I see
It every day now in my mirror, I the
Demon of wrath and pain. I'm closer to death
Now and haven't much time to waste; having
Weathered the isolation and storm of ego
Annihilation; I have nothing left to fear.

You probably don't know about Dwight. But your children will.

Originally published on this site on 10/14/2001.