"The glory of the hunt. The wondrous, exultant search for our prize, our trophy, our dinner was but a superfluous side effect to the trouble we sought. Really, our crime was in ever thinking we could leave and return without change. Although, the ship was, and still is, beautiful, its meaning has been ransacked and beaten to death - I blame the hunger. Our final days were sad but in the happiest of ways."
A poem by the late poet, Claude Martin. In 1973, at the gentle age of 23, the young poet was found dead in his small Los Angeles apartment - before any fame or recognition had floated his way. His death remains a mystery - a murder mystery. A known gambler and drinker and dancer, he had many dark acquaintances.
With a thought, the Poet rose from a bed of grime.
To the know thy future,
To know thy line
Would be the most horrid passing of time.
To know, everyday,
What a man would do,
What a woman would say,
Untying the knot of each latent play.
To know where it all would start,
And how it all would end
Would be the slowest passing,
The straightest bend.