Thirty-seven years ago Richard Brautigan was MY poet, MY writer, a hero of sorts. I wanted to be like him, to write as he wrote and indeed I poured out some
terrible tripe in his honor. Then he killed himself. I decided to be me, to write how I wrote and I poured out some terrible tripe for many years. It takes
time to hone a skill, to follow a forked road, to trust what the body, mind and heart say. So now I call myself a writer. Richard you {)(%#@#X! you could
have remained my hero. Now I am my own hero. I rather like that. Good-bye Richard Brautigan.





