A few yearsa ago, before I moved to the bay, I was in the poetry room at City Lights. It's like a chapel at an airport; there's something there to worship for everybody and there's usually just one or two people up there. I said hello to the old guy in the corner, and he said "Check this out. He's about to be named San Francisco Poet Laureate." I knew who Jack Hirschman was, but I hadn't seen Front Lines before, so I bought it along with my millionth copy of Coney Island of the Mind. People always steal "Coney Island" from me.
I've already talked at length about how much I like Jack Hirschman, so I won't bore you with too much more, but I'm looking at this book again and I'm thinking that Jack has the ability to be simultaneously nostalgic and innovative. I'm always a bit self-conscious about admitting I like the Beats, but I do. In Front Lines, Jack includes a great poem about the day he found out Hemmingway died that makes me envy his age and his era like I was a teenager again reading On the Road for the first time.
I'm giving this book away to the first person who emails me their address. I really hope this one finds a good home.
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