In 1975, yes folks, the dark ages of the dawn of disco and polyester, and cheesiness, I woke up to the world of poetry. Sitting in my living room in San Diego, watching public television with my ex-boyfriend on a Sunday afternoon, a televised poetry reading was the feature of the day. The stage was empty, save a refrigerator, a small table, a chair, I believe a lamp, and a book. The audience, full capacity filled with ex-hippies, budding yuppies, and college students who got their doses of "culture" from the LA Free Press. A gentleman who looked like he was just pulled off the street, was introduced, walked out on the stage, went to the frig and took out a long neck bottle of beer (it was well stocked), sat down, took long pull, lit a cigarette, put on half-glasses, and began reading this incredible poetry. It was indescribably wonderful to the two of us. He exposed the underside of the rock, a life that was very close to what we had come to know as daily living. The frustrations, the joy, the madness of trying to be a part of what's acceptable, and not really fitting into the mold. We immediately went on a search for a copy of this book and anything else we were able to find, poetry, novels, films, recordings. R,I.P. Charles (Henry), I will always be fan and promoter of your timeless genius..