Early this year a cold bitter wind followed me into my favorite bookstore in Denver. A small, musky, dimly lit spot right on Broadway that seems to have been sitting in the same spot since before I was born. It is one of those places that brings together a community of oddballs, outsiders, and geeks of all types with an anarchistic attitude and an allure of mischief.
I go there for two reasons, neither of which has to do with the coffee they serve. One is to stare at — and dream about — the glass display of rare books. Their first edition Philip K. Dick’s, Lovecraft’s, and single print pulp novels to be more specific. The other is the vast collection of local writers. Poetry chapbooks produced the old fashion way, by copy machine and staples. Indie zines on local art and music. Micro publishers, neighborhood-specific lit mags, and books only published in tens and placed on the shelves by the author him/herself.
On this particular day, I warmed up with a diarrhea colored cup of steamy coffee and perused the collections of recently received used books. I flipped through a few, of the many, white boxes with their plastic sleeved comic books. I sat in a worn leather chair in the back for a while, flipping through an early Terry Pratchett novel I had not previously heard of. On my way out I stopped by the shelf of the local stuff and loaded up on a few of the free magazines before settling on a small black book with white lettering and white and yellow cover art. Nick Plumber’s Black Pill and Shotgun Stories.
To be perfectly honest I didn’t even read any of his poems but settled on my purchase after seeing the little signature in ink next to a quick-stroke drawing of a man’s face on the inside cover. That’ll do. I probably said — as I often tend to while talking to myself — then checked out and went on my merry way.
It was months before I read it but when I did I did it in one sitting. Turns out Nick Plumber has style. Style that reminded me of Charles Bukowski in both prose and drinking habits, a good sign for my taste. I first reacted to My Redheaded Borgia — a poem about a bartender vividly alive on the page. A woman I feel like I have met. Maybe because there are many Borgia’s out there, or maybe just because of Plumber’s meticulously tossed word salad.
I continued reading and found nugget after nugget of writing that nearly fell off the barstool by itself. It is wonderful. I googled the man but stopped myself before I clicked anything. The phrase “nick plumber poet” yielded varied search results. A name similar to his belongs to a baseball player, there is a plumber in Houston that daringly named his company Nick’s Plumbing, and then there appears the Nick Plumber I seek.
From the two links I see on the first search page I gather him to be the editor for the Bukowski-esque and aptly named Modern Drunkard Magazine, and he has another poetry collection on Amazon. I click neither link.
This book has been sitting on my coffee table for six months without me opening it. It has slipped around my house and I have carried it with me with every intention of reading it but for some reason — a reason entirely without intent — I have neglected it, and I’m glad I did. I’m glad because I don’t think I would have appreciated this little gem six months ago. I’m also glad because I feel like the way that life has changed since the beginning of our global pandemic has given me a headspace more apt to properly receive this collection.
I have chosen not to seek Nick Plumber because I don’t want to break the magic that enchanted me as I read poems like Dead Generation. Or the deep cut of the last page, rounding up the collection nicely and tying it with a fancy bow in the poem Death and Tidal Waves. But what I will do is recommend that you complete my mission, even if it’s unrelated to Nick Plumber. Pick up a book you’ve never heard of, grab a chapbook from your friendly neighborhood poet, and indulge in the raw power of words without the influence of an editor with sellability in mind. Drink from the trickle of the lone stream as it flows down from the mountain of literature before it converges with the rivers and lakes beneath. The water up here is so much fresher and will renew your hope for a literary future where the words still ring true.
And Nick, if you’re reading this: had I had a hat I’d tip it your way!
Comments