Thursday, March 25th, 2010...6:55 pm

dave roskos | found myself…

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Found myself in Los Lunas a few years back, outside Albuquerque, not far from Santa Fe. Spent a wonderful afternoon at Kell Robertson’s place in the high desert. Ken Greenley, Matt Borkowski, and Michael Darrah came along. It was one of those rare magical afternoons that only happen a few times in a lifetime. at one point a hummingbird fluttered a few inches in front of my face & looked into my eyes. magic.

Couple days later Michael & I visited Mark Weber in Albuquerque. Mark & I had been penpals since the 1980s but had never met one another in person. To my surprise, Todd Moore was in the house. Todd & I had corresponded a little bit & he had been in a few issues of Big Hammer. Another magical afternoon ensued. For all of the violence in Todd’s poetry, the man that I met that afternoon was a kind, generous, gentle soul, a Listener; a stand-up guy. (And I got to ask him if he was a Jim Thompson fan. Sure enough, he was.)

After our meeting we continued our sporadic correspondance & worked on a book together. He was very generous. The news of his death felt like punch in the stomach. It knocked the wind out of me. We have lost a good friend & one of our most hard working poets & advocates.

Dave Roskos | march 23, 2010

1 Comment

  • I think “magical” is the perfect word to describe your trip. Man, that’s awesome! I never had a chance to meet Todd Moore personally but we corresponded almost daily, and I’d spoken with him on the telephone a few times. I think the “pornographer of violence” tag that Moore often gets is misplaced. There is violence in Moore’s writing, (and plenty of it) of course, but it serves a purpose. That purpose is an attempt to harness raw energy, to re-create it with words, to channel a thunderbolt! It doesn’t need to be an act of violence, many times it’s as simple as a car wreck, or a galloping horse, or a house burning, or a pretty woman flipping you the bird on the freeway. Those moments when time stands still and you feel truly alive. Those moments (in my opinion) are the energy rippling beneath Moore’s poetry like a dangerous, unseen monster. Threatening at any given moment to lift its head up from the black water and swallow you whole with terrible jaws! Not only violence but the threat of violence! The threat of your own extinction! Man, these weeks have been rough! Everything, it seems, has changed. I don’t usually respond much to what is written here but you talk about that “punched in the stomach” feeling. That is precisely how Moore’s passing has left me. I spoke with Todd on March 11th and he was his energentic, cheerful self. When the news reached me on the 12th it felt as though the wind had been knocked out of me. It hasn’t returned yet. Maybe it never will.

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