Charles Plymell’s poems are hard-core gems dug out of the earth. Yet they seem effortless to me. Without the slightest hint of literary elbow grease, they shine like polished jewels. I should have published more of them back in the day, but at least there was this one. It’s as gorgeous now as it was then.
Thanks. Seems like it was “tarnished angels”, but maybe too many angels anyway.
Ginsberg once told me that every printing of HOWL had new errors.
Bring back the scribes!! CP
