Hugh Fox


Why does the collection of my dead always come back now,
some places still a glorious blend of yellows and reds, others
just black trunks and empty limbs in the last November rain, just on
the edge of snow?
“Howya doin’, Hughie?”
Bespeckled, swollen-legged, practical black-shoed Gram, or
mon mere, “Will you please pass the sugar,” making
it sound like “Fire!,” mon pere, Mr. Double-Belly,sucking
on a cigarette or (special occasions) cigar, turkey all over
the tables in my brain, and trees going up, wreathes, Bless
me, Father, for I have, God rest you merry gentlemen…wanting
Mary Joan and Shirley and Guiliana and Patricia and Dolores
and Shirley all back,Lynn coming in the midnight door to
spend the night in my high-heaven hallucinogenic dreams,
the Chicago-LA-NYC-Boston-Paris-BC streets
and desire sun-shining, moon-shining over me twenty four
hours a day.

3 Responses to “Hugh Fox”

  1. donalmahoney1 Says:

    Every once in awhile I come across a poem by Hugh Fox and I’m reminded again that the man has died. I know Rusty Truck has occasionally done special issues on deceased poets and if Hugh Fox has not so been remembered yet, it would be a pleasure to read a passel of his poems all in one place.

  2. Doug Draime Says:

    Hugh was unique in both his delivery and “style”. His work was always enormously fascinating and unconventional. No gimmicks. No poses. When all is said and done, I think he’ll go down as one of the biggies, because he followed no one, except his own Muse.

  3. lynne savitt Says:

    Hugo lives always through his words on paper, thousands of letters & e-mails & his generosity of talent, spirit & love. Good to see this.

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