Ken Zimmerman
Non-Fiction
The Night Timothy Leary Threw Himself Into My Arms
There was that one night when Timothy Leary threw himself into my arms— literally— and over and over again, too. It was spring term, 1988, and I was working hard on writing the poems to finish up my MFA thesis. But Kesey’s novel class was in the revision stage, and...
For Ken, Who Saved My Life
For Ken, Who Saved My Life In the fall of 1977 I moved to New York City, having dropped out of college to become a hippie poet along with my buddies Tony and Bill. We were going to start a new magazine of American surrealism, which we already called New Honolulu...
Unacknowledged: Some thoughts on National Poetry Day
There was that one night when Timothy Leary threw himself into my arms— literally— and over and over again, too. It was spring term, 1988, and I was working hard on writing the poems to finish up my MFA thesis. But Kesey’s novel class was in the revision stage, and...
Walking Away: Some words for Ursula K. LeGuin
For Ken, Who Saved My Life In the fall of 1977 I moved to New York City, having dropped out of college to become a hippie poet along with my buddies Tony and Bill. We were going to start a new magazine of American surrealism, which we already called New Honolulu...
Retrocausality
Percy Shelley, in his essay “A Defense of Poetry” claims somewhat wildly that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.” I’ve always loved this exuberant statement, though I recognize its obvious absurdity. Poets, in their hovels and cafes, hiding in...
Don’t Worry About It
One night, during my first year in San Francisco, summer of ‘79, my friend Bob leaned over to me, handed me a doob and said, “Brother Kenny, do you need a job?” The thought hadn’t really crossed my mind, but sure, why not? Back then I’d try almost anything. Next...
Winning the Lottery
In conclusion, I might say that this funky and often tedious memoir work I’ve been busy with for who knows how long now— dredging through boxes of old journals mildewed and nearly illegible, photographs cracked and worn, blurred words and broken trinkets and solitary...
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