David Franks was found dead today.
If you knew him, and want to share stories, please leave a comment.
His website, alas, is pretty bare right now, as we had a calamity with the server some time back and lost all the original code (though all the source material is intact). I’ve been slowly re-gathering material to build it up again, but have been overwhelmed with work and was not able to get on it as quickly as David (or I) would have liked. Now, I guess, it’s a new kind of mission, and one I’d have hoped would have been years, decades even, down the line.
Tell me stories, will you?
Joe Wall - David’s web guy, collaborator, friend.
P.S. I have to approve the comments before they’ll post, unfortunately, or the page would be nothing but Viagra spam, but I’ll be watching.
I guess what I have to say is right here: David Franks Plays the Heart
It’s going to be a sad Valentine’s Day without a card from David.
this from an essay dan cuddy and i did for the loch raven review
i knew david going back- back-70’s, 80’s? probably at joe carderelly events at mica- - when he read at the “words on war” reading in baltimore at the loads of fun gallery- his poem was thot the best by most
his art work was also fabulous- he read in a quavering voice- perhaps due to his infirmities-his integrity always came thru!!!!
he wouldn’t want to be pigeonholed into the beat school
this a lead in to my david bit: “the career that I had pondered as an English major and poetry editor at Oberlin College, Ohio, as “poet” would have to be placed on hold while I became an adult. Amusingly, the father of Alan Furst, a writer in my class at Oberlin who has become notable as a mystery novelist, told Alan and me as we sat in his motel room at graduation in 1962, “You guys aren’t going to make any money as poets.” Neither of us have, it’s true. But Alan actually does make money as a writer! And poetry has meant a lot to us both!
David Franks—a dangerous poet indeed! (photo of David holding a rifle- the photos are, lamentably, missing from this version- you can see the whole thing by ordering the Loch Raven Review))
Alan’s father, at least, did not take the attitude towards our poetic ambitions as did the father of Baltimore poet David Franks, who wrote his son: “I am quite mystified by your approach to a new life… You wish to pursue something so esoteric… frankly, after three years I think it is time you found a real nine to five job like the rest of the world…” Dave’s response? He made an Dadaistic / surreal exhibit of this letter with bullet holes he’d shot through it! A City Paper article on Dave in August 1993 includes a photograph of the poet holding a rifle in emulation of JFK assassin Lee Harvey Oswald.
I can’t speak for the lady poets, but there is a generation gap thing that a lot of we male poets faced.
I’ve been thinking that maybe we should do a collective valentine, one last time, in his honor.
I knew David for years and years and we had our differences over the years, but he has my undying respect and admiration because he devoted his life to Art and what more can you ask from someone in this sad shadowplay we call life? Carry on, David - your venue is now the Multiverse.
David and I had been talking about collaborating…for decades.
Art Levine and I had him on our Blogtalkradio show in October of 2008.
He was….David Franks.
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/tomandart/2008/10/23/dantoni-levine
The first part of the show is with Brent Budowsky.
I’ll never forget the series of pieces he wrote for the new HARRY in (maybe) 1990 on his rehab. Nor when he sat in on my radio show in the late 80s and told people’s fortunes.
I always looked forward to his Valentines. He did not drool.
I loved his pearls–of wisdom–and those he draped around his neck. He spoke gently to me and seemed to be able to tap straight into emotion without the need to utter many words–I liked that about him and considered it his virtue to connect in a more direct and less verbal way. I believe we first met sitting with writers at a reading on the grass beside Patterson Park pagoda, a couple decades ago. May you find Peace at the end of your rainbow, David Franks.
I can hear David stamping his foot and bellowing to the heavens. he was the spirit of expression and I will miss bumping into him in the herenow and look forward to better times in the hereafter.
We published his work in Dancing Shadow Review and he was always a highlight performance at any reading.
Rest in Peace David, you will be sorely missed by many
http://www.goear.com/listenwin.php?v=d0e033f
I’ve known him only a few years, as audience member for quite a few of his performances, and gladly, proudly, as curator and host for a performance in Alexandria, Va.
Yet when I found out tonight he died I think I was hit hardest remembering driving around with him late night after a Baltimore poetry reading over a year ago or so. Good, long, quiet conversation. Closeness and loneliness of night sky through the wet windshield, presence of a stand-alone poet, personal openness, prickliness, frailty, and stubborn demands upon existence both rightful and unanswerable…
Good night David Franks………………….wherever you are
Love & wonderful memories of David. He & I put together a duende press edition of his book TOUCH way back in the 60’s here in Placitas, NM where he lived for a time. And over the years I kept getting wonderful love messages with hearts and curious photos so I’ve felt close to him all these years. What a loss I never got to see him again but our friendship continued . . . is it true Borges put his autograph on David’s chest? Thanks for this website in his honor . . .
I met David perhaps four years ago as I was running the i.e. reading series. He was a staunch supporter of my series as well as many younger poets in Baltimore & D.C.- David read / performed at the i.e. series two or three times & he gave loving & shocking & hilarious readings for each event. His warmth, persistance, generosity & prickliness will not be forgotten
by me, the i.e. reading series & so many poets & artists.
When I first heard the news, I was immediately skeptical. My first thought was “Oh this is just another conceptual piece by David. He’s not really dead.”
How sad I am to learn that he is really gone. We were never what one would call close, but I have many memories of his “readings” and performance pieces as well as drunken nights at the MRT.
Rest in Peace David. you were one of a kind.
Hey Joe,
If you need help with the website, I’m available at your convenience.
xx
sally
I was in a MICA poetry class in the 70’s that David taught on Friday afternoons.It was from 3-5 which was a deadly hour for most students on a Friday but we loved him. I remember the beginning of the first class where he came in with a megaphone and shouted “Pay Attention” repeatedly at us when we would gleefully respond back.I still have some of his valentines.Be at peace,David.
DAVID FRANKS
Frozen watercolor tears
in a jarring memory,
lighting the wrong end
of an earthly dream -
horns, bells, whistling
music - fog words cloud.
David Franks was one of the few figures within the Baltimore-Washington area from whom I still thought I could learn specific formal innovations. The psycho-acoustical soundtrack he created for Paul Sharits’ film T,O,U,C,H,I,N,G impelled me to translate it thus:
T,O,U,C,H,I,N,G
(via Paul Sharits & David Franks)
This straw,
its draw.
Destroy
this drawing,
it’s Troy.
Distraught.
Barry Alpert
And yes, Larry, David showed me photo-documentation of the occasion on which he managed to get Borges to autograph his chest. A conceptual performance within the frame of a public reading by Borges.
When Rafael Alvarez informed me of David’s being close to death 6 yrs ago I wrote the following “David Franks!” text. I’m glad David made it another 6 yrs. I’m currently working on putting a movie of him online @ my YouTube channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/onesownthoughts William S. Burroughs sd something to the effect that his writings were his immortality. David Franks lives on in the same way. David Franks is dead! Long live David Franks!
David Franks!
As a young experimental writer in the early ’70s,
I ventured into Baltimore searching for something
I wasn’t likely to find much of. At the Theater Project there
were open readings. I was disastisified w/ them for much
the same reason I wd be now. They were more group therapy
sessions than they were environments for language to thrive in.
Too many confessions of sex & coffee & booze & cigarettes
& too little thought about other uses words cd be put to.
Then I heard (or heard about) David Franks. He read the mistakes
from those correction tapes that were used in typewriters.
You’d backspace to your mistake, put the tape w/ white ink
over it, retype the mistake to replace the red or black w/ white,
backspace again, remove the tape & type what you wanted there instead.
Wonderful! David let the erratum speak for themselves.
He taught English Lit at the Maryland Institute of Art.
I wasn’t a student there (& didn’t want to be) but I attended
his class twice. He noted my unpaying presence & okayed it.
We talked about a project of mine that involved people
in different places performing the same actions at the same times:
“Attempting 2 Score Sum Action 4 Daily Living”.
He asked if I documented it & I sd I didn’t want to. He asked if
that was for spiritual reasons. No. That’s when we started getting
to know each other. I was a harsh judge: When David cdn’t
remember the word “palindrome”, I stopped attending his class.
He was eventually “let go” from there. I’m sure he was one of
the best teachers they ever had - but too controversial, eh?
I mean, I hear he even broke glass in the classroom.
Better than the breaking gas from the mouths of many teachers.
One of my favorite stories about him is about a performance
he gave in an auditorium somewhere in Southern Maryland.
He came out in front of the audience in a wheelchair w/
a blanket over his lap - after we’d had to wait a bit.
In a pathetic voice he explained that he was late because his mother
had just attempted suicide (this was based on a traumatic incident
in his childhood) & because of other miseries. He’d planted
Bonnie Bonnell & Jayne DeSesa posing as ‘lesbian hecklers’
in the audience. They started harrassing him w/ things like:
“Who gives a fuck about your problems, asshole!” He pulled
out a blank gun from under the blanket & pretended to shoot them.
They ‘died’ somewhat unconvincingly. Then he put the gun
to his head. As David told me at the time, he didn’t realize
that blank guns shoot wads of paper. At close range to his temple,
the fired wad stunned him & blood started to flow. His recently
estranged ex-girlfriend was in the audience. Some people
saw this act as a ploy to get her sympathy. It may’ve even
worked. It was VERY DRAMATIC (in a uniquely imaginative
sort of way). People flocked to David’s aid & he was rushed
to the hospital. Many were extremely angry & repulsed by
this apparent abuse of their emotional sensitivity. I thought it
was fantastic! One of the best performances I’d ever seen!
After that, David told me over the phone that he’d suffered
from synesthesia as a result of the head wound. Hearing colors,
seeing sounds. I don’t think he was happy about this. It was
a bit much. But what a way to get there!
David wd call me anonymously & talk about migrating
off-planet. I recognized his voice. Getting anonymous phone calls
at the time was somewhat of a norm in my life. I was co-running
the TESTES-3 phone stn. He asked whether I’d want to be selective
about who cd join our space colony. I voted for leaving it open.
He wanted selectivity - specifically Julie Newmar (a voluptuous
actress who played a robot on a tv show). He lusted for her.
These were fascinating conversations.
I’ve always liked David’s work because he’s managed to pack
emotionally difficult material into formally clever presentations
that often transcend simple expressiveness. He composed a piece
to be played by foghorns on tugboats in the Baltimore harbor.
He snuck into the Social Security Complex in Woodlawn (world’s
largest group of government bldgs?) back in the day when only such
places had photocopiers & fucked the glass of one of them until
he came. Photocopying merrily away all the while. My kind of guy.
We collaborated on “Hairballs, Wigs, & Weaves for Skinheads”
in 1990 - our parody of misunderstood white supremacists.
The organizers of the anti-racist rally we presented it at were
a bit afraid of what we might say - we might be, heaven forbid!,
POLITICALLY INCORRECT. Professor “Footlong” Franks’
sound-byte made it to the tv news.
Even little incidents w/ David are memorable to me. I remember
a time when we were in a bar in Fells Point & some friend
probably asked him to get a drink for them. Immediately
getting into the role of high-priced waiter, he draped
a cloth napkin over his arm & bowed before getting to the task.
Performative panache.
My friend Joan Lobell once told me about David & her being
in Fells Point & about his entangling her in a drama when they
invaded an apartment where someone had just overdosed.
David wanted Joan to film the ODed girl’s friends’ attempts
to rouse her naked in the shower - or something like that.
He just plunged right in. The friends were not pleased.
David & Paul Sharits were buddies. David’s the guy in Sharits’ 16mm film
“T.O.U.C.H.I.N.G” who flirts w/ threatening his own tongue w/ removal
by scissors. Both Sharits & Franks have treaded a thin line between
self-destruction & intensively urbane commentary. Franks even toured w/
Root Boy Slim & his Sex Change Band (who had the ‘hit’ “Boogie ’til you
Puke”) to be “beat up on stage” (whatever that meant).
In 1992, David made a Philosopher’s Union Member’s Mouthpiece
that I shot as part of a series that I was making w/ the PXL-2000
Pixelvision camcorder. His was the 70th. His subject?
Temperance. Apparently drinking was getting him into
trouble so he stopped. His text is a thoughtful monolog.
Don’t misunderstand me, not all of David’s work & life is
sensationalist &/or morbid thrills. He has a CD published by Pyramid
Atlantic called “Musical Words” that many wd find pleasant
& non-confrontational. David’s far from being a one-trick-pony.
If you’re looking for someone w/ ideas & unique & poetic
ways of presenting them to you, look to David Franks.
- tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE; December 9, 2004E.V.
David
Your mystified expresstion when after staring at the three dots on the card, then w/ closed eyes, tilting you head back slowly to reveal the face of Jesus Christ in your mind’s eye
After so many attempts ” It worked! I saw it! It Worked!”
You exclaimed
We rushed back to the gift shop in downtown Fernandina Beach, you bought all the cards they had, then off to the post office where you bought pale blue teddy bear padded envelopes.
You enclosed this remarkably magical card along w/ sharks teeth and sent them to you very lucky and loved friends.
I found my card the other day in a drawer and thought of you. Funny. Sad.
I took a photograph of you in front of that post office
I loved him as well and remember with great fondness a poetry event that David orchestrated at the Fells Point Gallery in I believe the summer of 1975.I was the gallery director and worked very closely with him on this event. It was filmed at the Dead End Saloon because of rain. The poetry event was sponsored by Fells Point Gallery an Alumni gallery of MICA. David had a Sword Swallower and Fire Eater at the beginning and end of the performance. Edith Massey of John Waters cast, read original poems about stray cats.She was in full costume with laced up black bustier A local Fells Point character named Gladys wrote poetry to her paintings of creatures that kept her company and David performed death poetry in a wheel chair.He wanted to arrive in a coffin but he settled for the wheel chair. What an evening and what a memory. All the press were there and a full house enjoyed an evening of delightful absurdity. It may not seem so silly or strange now but in those days David was breaking new grounds. Let us all remember David.
I have known David most all of my life. He was my neighbor in 1950 and our families remained neighbors after we moved to neighboring houses two years later. Our families were best friends forever. As children, teens, adults, through the death of my father, and then his, my mother and then his, we have a lifetime together. My brilliant magician friend David, we raised chickens, penny and penelopy, in our backyard, only to eat them unknowingly after our fathers told us they had taken them to live out their lives at a nearby farm. I am not sure David ever knew who that dinner was. I loved David, I loved his whole family. I remember the day he told his parents about his marriage to MaryAnne, I was supposed to get my tonsils out, but that didn’t happen. I did eventually get my tonsils out but David’s marriage didn’t last. After high school I moved in with them temporarily while my parents were living abroad. David was in New Mexico most of that time, but his doves were with us. Years of in and out of each others homes, years of family dinners, his family may never have understood what went on in his head, but oh how his mother loved him. Into old age, in her apartment in Bethesda she would try to plan for his future once she was gone. Who would care for him? How would he survive? Would he have health insurance? With my eyes closed I have images of David in my mind, my old babysitter regaling Paul and I with tricks, and riddles, looking like James Dean, his disaffected self, his guitar, trying to record the water in our hot tub, wearing my father-in-laws red bathrobe, the valentines, his father’s doctor bag, the empty suitcase he brought with him on his last visit last spring, and then David the king as we went to the Paul Sharits exhibit and the people there knew him, knew who he was. He was validated, in a way he never needed. He was the crazy David of his family, the brilliant David of the Paul Sharits gallery show, the tormented soul of my friend David who felt unloved by his father even though that was not fact. David struggled with his demons, his addictions, daily living presented difficulties, but he labored on. His joy in bells, in birds, in friends, in silence….when he left us last I wondered if I’d ever see him again. In my mind I will see him always walking down the walk, and hear his lilting voice say my name, Susie.
I first hoped this news was an early April Fools joke, though (since several incredible friends have moved off the planet in recent weeks) now the thought that wisps of people’s souls might well mingle happily somewhere in a kind of cosmic art scene, way out there in the universe is sweetly comforting. Thinking too of how so many were recently lost in Haiti and continue to shuffle off this mortal coil, I can’t help but imagine and hope that David’s essential essence is having a fantastic time right now…
David Franks was my friend in Baltimore and later in New Orleans. I remember when I taught at the old Community College of Baltimore, I helped him get a part time gig. He had a poetry performanc he did with a bull horn, called PAY ATTENTION. He would read lines and then shout in the bullhorn. PAY ATTENTION! Everything David did was a performance, hanging out with him, he hung out time. Delay, delay, delay. I remember waiting for hours with my baby daughter wanting to go to a restaurant with him in the Marigny. There were always strange delays, preparations. There was a Miss Oklahoma who was supposed to be a part of the party though she never showed. (But she would.) He was in some way stretching out time, filling it with his own intentions. He did not want to livein the world’s time, and did not want to “do time”, he wanted to make time sing in the spaces he stretched out. I admit he could be exasperating in the framework of “friend”, but he was also incredibly charming. I remember the book case painted baby blue inside he gave me. Recall going through a bank drive thru where he stole the plastic money can for some cause or other. Freaked me out. Remember the night he performed in DC with Root Boy Slim. He came in a wheelchair and got the crowd to donate money for paralyzed people, with a sort of rousing gospel number, as he got into it more and more, he rocked the chair back and forth and finally leapt out of the chair. People were shocked and actually angry. He always took the audience up to the edge. He wanted us to PAY ATTENTION! He had a lot of balls. Another night when he did this act he got beaten up. David had the great thing: courage. He was not afraid to be David. Being David could not have been easy at all times or any time. I was there another night when he was performing a poem caleld EXCUSES. And one of the EXCUSES involved ,”I didn’t know it was loaded.” And he had a gun. Backstage someone had messed with the chambers. The idea was to fire it first at his head. And then fire it again and it would go off. But when he fired it at his head it went off. A lot of the people in the crowd thougt it was an act. But I could see he was bleeding from the ear. He’d shot himself with a blank. That could not have been a good thing for his hearing. And then when we all realized he was hurt we just stood around in shock. Andrei Codrescu and I drove back to Baltimore to let the Balitmore Sun know the poet had paid the price and this had happened. We knew we had to make it an immortal moment. That’s also the night I met the publisher of my first book of poems as we all stood around in confusion and dismay and amazement, which were often the combination of feelings at his performances.
In later years, I’d get postcards and Valentines from David. Also reminders, such as his campaign, “To keep the Ch in Chanukah”. his sense of humor was strangely elongated and wonderful. But trying. last time I saw him in person I was doing a gig for a book tour. I was trying to sign books as he waited patinetly in line. He showed up with a pair of red boxing gloves and insisted we pose together for a photograph. Was he acknowledging some sense of competitiveness? Was he being aggressive and wonderful at the same time? Disruptive. Yes. A lot of people have ideas. They come and go (the ideas). David lived his ideas and put you into them, whether you wanted to or not. That was his art and that was how he made his life into a performance. He left behind a lot of memories. Salut David. Peace to you. I will keep the Ch in Chanukah, I will.
THE NIGHT DAVID ASKED BORGES TO AUTOGRAPH HIS HEART
I was there in the UNO auditorium. The place was packed. The president of the University of New Orleans, a very very uptight guy, was presiding. Beautiful 80 year old Borges, blind, in the center of the stage. And the master wore a suit, sat in a harsh light. He would roll his eyes up and pull down a quote from a poem. In German. In Spanish In English” “Good night sweet prince….and flights of angels send thee to thy dreams.” He said there were certain metaphors that occurred in poetry all over the world. And they are: Time is a river. A woman is a flower. Death is a sleep. Life is a dream. And the master said, the reason these occur again and again in every poem on earth is, THEY ARE TRUE….
David stood up. He said, Do you remember when I asked you to autograph my heart? (Earlier at a reception David had ripped open his shirt and asked Borges to sign his name on his chest. And the master had done so, no problem, with black ink.) And this had perturbed EL Presidente de UNO. Now when David spoke to the master, Borges answered so sweetly, Yes I do remember, but he could not see that the police were coming to grab DAvid and haul him out of the room. I was there. A strange and beautiful event. David lost his job at U.N.O. But he had the master’s name written on his heart. Life is a dream but only some people know how to make it so. David was one.
I am David’s first cousin, Bruce. His mother, Auntie Dotty and my mother, Auntie Marlene were sisters. I have to say that Auntie Marlene was his favorite Aunt…we call it…YFA or MFN. If you know Auntie Marlene you will understand.
I have read some beautiful tributes via the computer and thank you all for your thoughts and memories.
Mum and Dad just told me a story that David and Mary Ann came to visit us in Lowell, Massachusetts. David and Mary Ann were just married. I was probably 6 or 7 years old at the time. They were sleeping in our playroom. Mum said that they locked them into the playroom so that his three little cousins, that’t Larry, Bruce(me) and Joel wouldn’t run downstairs early in the morning and wake them up. They were newly married and they were locked in to protect themselves from us!
David and Paul were older than us and they lived in Chevy Chase, Maryland while we were in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. We didn’t see them often but we did drive to Auntie Dotty and Uncle Maury’s house and always got to see our cousins, Roy Rogers Chicken, and Auntie Dotty with her finger in everything.
I remember the green hair story. David died his hair green and got kicked out of school and then had do dye it again?? Brown…to get back in…Dye and get out…and Dye and get back in??
We too did get valentines from David on occassion. Auntie Marlene has them somewhere special…just got to look for them and reminisce.
Also received a gold painted wishbone…I think of David whenever I eat a chicken and always dry the wishbone on the kitchen window sill.
David did stay with us in New Hampshire for a little bit. He was applying for a teaching job at the University of NH. He didn’t get the job but made friends in the area. It was at that time that he had a record out…Larry and I would listen to the record and I can still sing the words to “It Takes the World to Make a Feather Fall.” A very pretty song both music and lyrics. I believe David also wrote songs for Roberta Flack, that’s back in my memory some.
I too also remember the white out correction tape. David had brought some to our house to show it to us. In the old fashioned typewriters, when you made a mistake you either used white out or tape and backspaced and put the white tape down and retyped over the mistaken letter. David saved the tape strips and made a work of art from it. Hey, last week, Mum and I cut out letters from the newspaper and circulars and created a poem/birthday card for a very good friend. Do you think David got his talent from Auntie Marlene and me…no…David had his own very special talent.
Dad, Uncle Charlie may have a tape of those tugboats in the cellar packed away with old photos and such. We had given away our old real to real tape recorder so the tugboats are chugging alone and honking in the cellar…now calling for us all.
Do find someone with a copy of Musical Words…so nice to listen to.
We were always taught to accept people for who they are. David was a brillant person. He had so many thoughts and ideas and could put them into wonderful words and acts…always gentle and soft spoken with us.
We had sent him a letter with a note and some old pictures we thought he’d enjoy. It was returned. We put another stamp on it and mailed it again…the next day we heard the sad news.
Auntie Dotty and Uncle Maury, you would be proud of all the nice thoughts and memories friends are conveying and sharing with all.
Paul and Betsy, I send my sympathies and know we are all going to miss a good brother and favorite cousin.
Love, Bruce
David was the bartender. He is still serving us drinks. Remember to remember.
I’ve known David my entire life. He was my dad’s best friend. He was my friend. Today I was doing some research for my book and I went to youtube to watch T,O,U,C,H,I,N,G. There was a new notation; David Franks 1948 - 2010. My heart stopped. I just talked to him this month. We were going to go to my father’s opening at the Hirshhorn this spring. I owed him a return call. I am profoundly saddened.
does any of the posters have info on david’s estate?- i would like to buy his art- dave eberhardt mozela9@comcast.net
+ i’m sure most of u have the info on the mar. 31st memorial
also- in nxt post- read his poem which i will post: “alice gaines played the harp”
DAVID FRANKS poem from “Words on War”
« on: January 15, 2010, 06:15:44 AM » Quote Modify Remove
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Alice Gains Played the Harp
In kindergarten Alice Gaines
Played the harp . at nap time
& for an hour at noon each day
It was as if Angels sang away
The cares of children sweetly sleeping
The cares of children sweetly sleeping
After graham crackers & milk . even
When the air aids sirens’ shrill alarms
Shattered dreams
Alice Gaines played the harp . even
We . the youngest children knew the drill
To close the windows against flying glass
To move under our desks & clasp
Our hands to the back of our bowed necks & pray
That the bomb was not really on its way
This time . that the Russians weren’t coming
This time . to sift through our charred remains
Alice Gaines played the harp . as
From beneath my desk I prayed:
Dear God . this is David
In Washington D.C. . remind
The Russians . my Father
Pappa . & . Bubbie are Russians . too
Dear God . this is David
I am in
The first reading group
Under my desk
Waiting
For the end
Of the world
and by me in mem david franks-
david- it’s me, david……….
waiting as did you
for the end of the world
david, the muse of poetry
does not forget you
(and assorted other b. s. phrases)
david- you had a name
like “bubbee”, “graham crackers”,
“charred remains”, graham crackers and milk”!!!!!!!!!!!!
I dated David a couple of times in New Orleans in the early 1980s. He took me to, of all things, a Yankees baseball exhibition game in the New Orleans Superdome, where he managed to make a pretty spectacular catch of a foul ball that flew into the stands. He, of course, had to document the event by taking some photos of me holding up the ball back in his apartment afterward–he later gave me one of them. Like Rodger, above, I experienced strange delays and name-dropping (which at first seemed to be suspect, and then later proved to be true) in David’s company: David was the only person I’d ever known to have a big fat Rolodex phone file in his apartment, like a Hollywood agent or something, and one drunken night, long after midnight, he kept insisting that he was going to phone Emmylou Harris, whom he said he had written songs for and was friends with. He had a lot of trouble finding her number on the Rolodex, and then when he finally did, I think he got somebody else connected to her, not Emmylou herself, on the other end, and talked for a long while, pacing in a circle on the end of the phone cord. He was obsessed with Jim Morrison, too–claimed to have known him–and they were certainly kindred spirits, so I would not doubt it now, though I did back then. I had met David at one of the weekly poetry readings at the Maple Leaf Bar in New Orleans. In those days it had a laundromat in the back, and some of the poets would bring their laundry to do before the reading. That’s how my poet friend Grace Bauer met David–she was back in the Leaf’s laundromat, folding her clothes before the reading started, and he walked in and immediately began sniffing her underwear. Do not rest in peace, but pace in your usual state of creative agitation, David: you were a wild man, an original, a burst of color in our lives.
the amazing thing- to me- is reading all these reminiscenses and thinking- but i never knew david this way- i only knew a piece of him-
and this it is how it will be with all of us- except those w disciples or biographers- and dave will have neither- nor will you!!!
makes me think abt the b s of life- the crapola of it- altho- none of us live for what people will write on our tombstones- or do we?
i am sorry dave never addressed this- at least he tried to b honest
In the Constellation Eeyore- in mem, david franks
Who are you, who do you think we are?
It’s all so far, so far, so far.
Start in the constellation “Eeyore”- that guide star….
Pin a tail on it- go from there south in the southern sky…
That shadow had not looked that way before,
And since I’m asking why:
Vast forests to the north, bor-
eal taiga, the last time I saw my father,
Spoke to him- I can’t remember now.
There could be meaning, could be some how
Like the overtones to a piano string,
The clouds keep changing now that you mention it.
My pa liked cheese and crackers, that I know.
The forests of the night sky, forests of stars
Where you can go a long way before you meet another.
It’s all so far, so far, so far.
Who are you, who do you think we are?
this sent to aaron henkin who tried to capture david on his program “the signal”
by the time u get to it- you may not want to see it: (becuse u cannot take criticism?)
what about the details of his death- were this poe- wouldn’t you go into it? you supposed to be covering great art?
best program you’ve done
- and you deserve credit for that
little small, too too late
frank’s tug boat horns and church bells- grandiose- BUT- neat ideas-he had no one to promote, produce- PAY FOR- couldn’t ypr have paid?
the true arts in this city- are they really covered?- well- the symphony, center stage- they do the classics- but YOU are supposed to do what is going on NOW
questions you could have asked but didn’t
why don’t you want to be more commercial- or- do you think you could ever be “popular”- like michael jackson? why not?
people called dave a “prankster”? give me a break
his “enigmatic mind”- i give u credit for what you have done- aaron- but it’s not nearly enuff- can’t you say that?
whole interview a bit precious- should b more political
art is important- but great art is-hmmmm
the memorial is jan 31st-
for details email the creative alliance in baltimore
Like several people above — including Julie, who tells the tale of the firs time I met him — I knew David in New Orleans back in the day. The Borges story. The bull horn story. All David as I remember him. May he rest in peace — or dada heaven….
I have been thinking about the church bells poem that David had been working on. Then… my favorite poem was alarm clock
i’m telling u- was david franks something else?- and yet- u couldn’t know it at the time- unless- unless- u were specially prescient-
franks is the kind of poet that was famous after his death
but that was then …..
now?
he was ahead of his time
but- i wonder if there is enuff lov of poetry now to redeem him?- for history? not that it matters to him- he’s dead-
his range- his excellence in many areas- chris toll read a poem by him that has never been published- and i think chris has the only copy and chris’s own poem, in response was also great
to us who still treasure poetry- what does it matter whether we draw big crowds- we kno what we like
I am a cousin of David Franks. In fact, it is because of him that I was conceived, so I owe my life to David. The family is story is thus: in 1943 when David was born, the war was on and funds were tight. His parents were living in Michigan and could not afford any help. My father, who was very fond of his niece, David’’s mother, purt my mother(to-be) on a train from Boston to Detroit. The train was fiilled with soldiers, some wounded, and my mother refused to take a seat so she stood all the way to Detrot (this is, true or not, the family story). When she arrived in Michigan, she took care of Dorothy, David’s mother and baby David. When Dorothy was stornger, my other returned home Massachusetts and told my father that is was reallly nice taking care of a baby again. I was born 10 months later. So, David, I thank you for a life that has been very rewarding and enjoyable. Alas, the family lost contact with David. I was saddened to hear of his death alone in an apartment. But I was pleased to read that he had so many friends in Baltimore who thought well of him that they gave him a wonderful “send-off”. To David’s friends: thank you from his family.
between 50-75 persons gathered at the creative alliance’s patterson theatre today to honor the memory of legendary baltimore performance poet- David Franks- the order of events was: 3-4, Memorial, 4-5, Reception, 5-6+ reading by poets- some 20- curated by David Beaudouin; the event was organised chiefly, as far as i can tell, by Adrianna Amari and Megan Hamilton and the Creative Alliance- along with other of David’s closest friends- Rafael Alvarez?
The Memorial: , welcome by Megan Hamilton, video of Franks composition for handbells- thoughts on collaboration- Glenn Moomau, letter from Sen. Mikulski read, letter from Chris Sharits, video of David reading- done by tENTATIVELY a cONVENIENCE, thoughts from poet Andre Codrescu read, eulogy by Buck Downs read by Buck, Franks poem on bluebirds-read by Lorraine Whittlesby, ended w Franks composition of recorded tug boat whistles
the reception was a potluck- with many items brought by the audience- several large cakes read Happy Birthday, David- in that Sat. was Dave’s birthday although he died before that- what date? pin on buttons were avaliable in the shape of red hearts reading “Poet David Franks”
poetry reading- a super job by David Beaudouin: many moving readings-much humor- (befitting David) Mike Lally from D C begins - says ” it pisses me off that now i know David won’t be attending my memorial”- REVIEW CONTINUES BELOW
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other poetsand writers and inspired friends reading: Alpert, Alvarez, Bender, Boyd, Eberhardt, Epstein, Figgs, Fuller, Hamilton, Lang, Mason, Moomau, Royer, Schiavone, Toll, Wall, Zippelli- i know i’ve left some one out- the reading was m c’d by David Beaudouin-
some one tells me, you never get a feel for the whole person except in retrspectives like this- more’s the pity-the person of David Franks came to life in this event more than in any similar event i’ve been to
he was a startling poet- like Rimbaud, Patti Smith-a precocious poet, humorous poet, a radical poet
in one poem he mentions his influences- Creeley, Berrigan, O’Hara, - poets who include the chance, include the lost material- poets who “didn’t know what they are doing”-
Dave would never have been published in Poetry Magazine or the New Yorker- and i have a problem w that-one of his poems ends “May I call you penus?” (this was read by Betsy Boyd)- if we can’t include such poetry as great- where are we?
Just so you know, David was in touch with his friends and the people around him right up to the end, and he was in a happy, optimistic time after a rough stretch, so he wasn’t alone in isolation when he left us—he was fully engaged with the world, aggravating and delighting the people he saw on a day-to-day basis, and being David. Your cousin was an amazing man, often bewildering, enraging, and utterly befuddling, but he was loved, right up to the last.