A couple of days ago I went into Pegasus Books specifically to buy the new Cometbus, “A Bestiary of Booksellers”. Pegasus hadn’t received their shipment yet—even though Pioneers and PBW already had copies!—but coincidentally there was a larger-than-usual Cometbus display so I got to pick up some of the other issues that I haven’t read. One of the featured volumes was Last Supper, which I didn’t realize was a collection of poetry.
I hardly ever buy poetry because it’s so hit-or-miss, but I’m okay with having purchased Last Supper. It conveyed something of punk New York to me, a person who’s never been punk or visited New York. Lots of romance and nostalgia. The author bemoans that time is slipping through his fingers; all of the places that he used to love are closing down. It’s a book about time and place, how the where is just as ephemeral as the when. And the who.