On the Death of E Simms Dark


We were saddened to be recently notified of the death of the preeminent poet of the Twentieth Century, E Simms Dark.

Dark, who preferred to be called, simply, “E,” was born in Sault Ste Marie, Michigan, to Noble and Susan Dark. No record of the year of his birth survives. A call to his fifteen year old niece, Delilah Crumple, proved unfruitful. “Look, he was fucking old, ok?” she told us.

Dark was always proud of his first name, telling friends and acquaintances that it stood for Enigmatic, Energetic, Elephantine and, inexplicably, Roberto. In reality, his parents named him E in accordance with their religious beliefs. In a 1927 interview with The Speakeasy Gazette, Susan Dark stated that long names are “the handiwork of the devil.”

Life for the young Dark was difficult. His father was a logger and his mother was a seamstress. Money was tight and, owing to the long Upper Peninsula winters, Dark was the sixth of twelve children. He, his siblings and his parents lived in a three room cabin on the shore of Lake Superior. Dark describes his childhood in his poem “Bologna Sandwich:”

The water off Whitefish Point
fifty-nine degrees on a summer day
gray as my thoughts
waves rippling between here and Canada

Iron ore boats steam past
freshwater sailors leer from the rail
at my sister, red hair and
seventeen years old
sunning in her mermaid costume

Home, four letter word meaning
“sleep five to a bed”
beans for breakfast
beans for lunch
three of my brothers
wrestling on the floor

What I wouldn’t give
for a bologna sandwich
with lettuce and cheese
on a covered platter
and for my father
to learn how to use
a condom

At age sixteen, Dark followed his father into the logging industry. He went to work for Wolverine Hardwoods, Inc., but was fired after only nine days of work for calling his foreman “jovial,” which was apparently taken as an insult.

Dark hopped a southbound train and ended up in Indianapolis where he scratched out a meager living as a janitor in an auto plant. He began writing, believing at first that he could make a name for himself by getting published in quotation books. “It didn’t occur to me at the time that most quotations were taken from larger works” Dark recalled in a 1962 interview with the New England Journal of Trout Fishing and the Written Word, “I submitted dozens of witty quotes to publishers and only received one reply.”

Dark’s one reply came from Jameson Fripper, renowned editor for the New York publishing giant, Happy House. “What in the hell is this, and who are you?” Wrote Fripper.

Upon receiving Fripper’s letter, Dark decided that he needed to move to New York to be near the great publishing houses. In may of 1917, spending what little he had saved in Indianapolis, Dark bought a train ticket and a notebook. Upon arriving in the great city, Dark encountered a Navy recruiter. Unaware that a war was going on, and thinking that the recruiter was offering him an apartment, Dark enlisted. He spent the next four years onboard a cruiser, serving as a yeoman.

Dark made the best of his sailing experience. He took time to write everyday. Dark’s experience as a yeoman, consisting mainly of composing and editing officer evaluations and communications, gave him an experience with words and ideas that he lacked growing up in Michigan. Additionally, he was a very popular attraction on the ship’s entertainment nights. A fellow crew member, Charles “Mac” McLaughlin, remembered at a dinner honoring Dark in 1974:

Once a week the crew would put on a show for ourselves. What else could we do? We were out floating around in the frigging water for weeks at a time. Lots of guys would sing and dance, [Jeff] Axtell would even juggle–but E would dress up like a woman and wiggle his rear end at us. You should have seen it! After thirty days at sea he was a welcome sight. After sixty days guys would ask him out. Captain Artebus even invited E to dine alone with him in his quarters.

It was rumored, though always denied by Dark, that he continued his one-man cabaret act for many years to come, often appearing at small men’s clubs as Tiffany Shuff or Melody D’Argent. At any rate, owing to his delicate bone structure and ample posterior, it is easy to see how he could have been a hit.

When he finally returned to New York after the war, Dark carried with him a notebook full of poems. He didn’t like writing prose. “Too many words, I get lost.” But, despite his burgeoning talent and the obvious merit of his work, Dark continued to struggle.

For one, owing to four years at sea, he became afraid that he would drown if he left his loft. Dark overcame his phobia by wearing a life jacket and bellbottom trousers. “In a pinch, bell bottoms can be used as flotation devices” Dark later said. Completing his odd ensemble, Dark often wore an admiral’s hat given to him by a friend who had appeared in the musical H.M.S. Hoppenscotch.

Strange appearance aside, Dark’s main difficulty was that his poems did not rhyme. Owing to a tragic accident as a child where small crock fell on his head, Dark was unable to recognize rhyming patterns. Unfortunately for him, the early 1920s was a rigid time period in the poetry business, in part as a reaction to the increasingly experimental work coming out of postwar Europe. Elysian House, then the largest poetry publisher in the United States and the forerunner to the greeting card company Emotional Press, had its corporate motto engraved above its entrance. “If it doesn’t rhyme and it’s not in iambic pentameter, then it’s not worth a shit.”

Fortunately for Dark, he happened upon Fripper one day in 1922 while walking in Central Park. Dark introduced himself. When Fripper stared blankly, Dark recited the quotation that he had sent Fripper years earlier. “The only thing wrong with children today is that they are so loud and ugly.” Instantly recognizing the quote, Fripper replied “so, you’re that nutjob.”

Dark persuaded Fripper to look at some of his poems, reportedly by offering to clean Fripper’s office. Fripper was a notorious slob. Three years earlier he had been successfully sued by a minor poet from Kansas City who was severely injured when a stack of old magazines fell on him in Fripper’s office.

As a result of his chance meeting with Fripper, Dark’s first published work appeared in the Herringbone Monthly.

Prohibition Mourning

Slipping in and out
of my room before dawn
dewdrops hanging from blades of grass
tiny messiahs waiting
waiting
waiting
to drop to the sinful earth
dry below them
tiny dirt craters form
when salvation finally comes

I stand at the corner
half of last night’s sandwich
pickle loaf with mustard
in the pocket of my robe
dry am I
waiting for the messiah
waiting
for my salvation
to fall from the rooftops

As God is my witness
I really need a drink

After receiving hundreds of phone calls and letters regarding Dark’s poem, Fripper agreed to publish Dark’s first collection, A Purse Full of Tulips, in 1923. The book was listed on the best seller list for 74 straight weeks.

Fame and fortune brought many changes to Dark’s life. He received psychological assistance in dealing with his drowning phobia, traveled extensively in the U.S. and Europe, had an audience with the Pope and dined with Fatty Arbuckle. He continued to write daily.

Dark’s next collection of poems, entitled Man am I ever Rich, published in 1924, was generally well received by critics but universally hated by the reading public.

Woman on the Sidewalk

The woman that I pass
on the way to the gala reception
filthy in her rag dress
thin coat of many colors
hand outstretched
“Please, sir, I am hungry”
a dime tossed her way
I nudge my beautiful date
tell her to avert her eyes
“let’s not let this spoil our evening,
but put your diamonds in my pocket
to keep them safe from the riff-raff”

The book only sold 2500 copies, mostly to churches as fuel for book burnings. Oddly, according to contemporary reports, it was not the arrogant tone of the book that caused such a fervor but the gratuitous use of the word “boobies,” which appears no less than twenty-five times. As a result of the massive failure, Dark lost his publisher and Fripper lost his job.

Having spent all of the money that he earned on A Purse Full of Tulips on bootleg gin, fast cars and premium luncheon meats, Dark was, once again, destitute. He spent much of 1925 living and writing behind a dumpster in SOHO. In late 1925 he took a job as a doorman at the Chelmsley Hotel in Manhattan. It was there that he once again happened upon Fripper who had, by that time, taken a position as an editor for the Gerbil Group, a minor publisher of how-to books and soft pornography. In his autobiography, Fripper recalls the meeting:

I had just gotten out of my taxi when I noticed that E was working the door. I tried to return to the taxi–he’d ruined my career, after all–but it was too late. The Spanish Ambassador had already taken my cab and E had noticed me. “Have I got some poems for you” he said. “Fuck off” I said. Fortunately for both of us, he persisted and I read the poems he produced from his coat while a line of rich socialites lined up in front of the hotel’s doors, unable or unwilling to open them by their own efforts.

The poems that Fripper read that evening eventually became The Frenchman’s Handkerchief, which sold over 200,000 copies and was widely praised for its gritty portrayal of street life in New York during the Jazz Age. Dark was, once again, on top. This time to stay.

We are all familiar with E Simms Dark’s career following the publication of The Frenchman’s Handkerchief. He won the Nobel Prize, was our nation’s poet laureate under two (two!) Presidents, held a brief infatuation with the Nazi party (he loved the brownshirts–“They look so snappy”), and spent his elderly years as a poet/philosopher turned to by newspapers and television in times of national tragedy. Who can forget how we sat affixed when he appeared on all three networks and calmed the nation after the resignation of former Secretary of Agriculture, Earl Butz? “Corn and beans and milk and sorghum/commodities all/farewell my farmer and captain/fare thee well.”

Who can follow E Simms Dark? Who can we turn to now, especially considering the country’s dire economic situation? Perhaps we can take some solace in Dark’s words from his collection Get me a Job, written during the last depression, so long ago. “Give me that damned bread/I am hungry for peace and hope/but mostly I want that damned bread/and maybe some soup.”

We will miss you, E Simms Dark.

Ask a Headcount-Realignment Specialist

Dear H.R. Specialist:

I have just lost my job in auto sales after fourteen years. I have three children and a wife to support. Because the payments on my house tripled over the last year, I have depleted my savings. Owing to the subprime meltdown, my investments, including my retirement, are worth next to nothing. I’m afraid that I will not be able to feed my children. I’m forty years old and at my wit’s end. What should I do?

Ryan in Ohio

Dear Ryan:

What an exciting opportunity you have! Twenty years ago, we spoke of your generation at Gen-X. Now, you are Gen-Xtra! Xtra time and Xtra motivation!
Use that Xtra time to look for food in unconventional places. When we think of the “downwardly mobile,” we often picture the hoboes of the 1930s, with ratty clothes and unshaven faces. I’m sure, however, that you have a closet full of dress clothes left over from your career. Use them to your advantage! For instance:

* Check your local paper for funerals. There is usually at least one funeral per day in any decent sized town. After the funeral there is almost always a wonderful meal, usually prepared by a local church. Go to the funeral and the meal! Not only will you and your family eat well but you will also remember that there are worse things than being unemployed. Such as dead! Remember to be vague in your condolences to the family, to follow the crowd to the meal, and to have your wife carry a plastic bag in her purse for leftovers to eat later.

* In my town of twenty-thousand, there is at least one church or synagogue hosting a pitch-in lunch or supper every Saturday or Sunday. Keep in mind that they don’t know if you brought food or not. Even if they do, they will probably not say anything to you, especially if they are Methodists. If something is said, remind them that Jesus said his followers would never go hungry. Don’t say that in the synagogue, though. And, don’t forget the leftovers!

* Finally, always be on the lookout for fish fries, pancake suppers and the like. The food is always good and, owing to the volunteer staffs, it is extremely easy to eat without paying a dime! Just walk in and get in line for food!

Dress for success and you will always get a good meal. Remember, if you look like you belong there, you do!

Dear H.R. Specialist:

My company just announced that there will be no holiday bonuses this year. I count on my bonus to pay for my kids’ Christmas presents. They are only five and seven, so I can’t just skip Christmas. How am I supposed to provide for my children?

Annie in Maine

Dear Annie:

First of all, congratulations on having a job and thank you (and all of you other hardworking Americans who remain employed) for showing up to work each day and filling in the cracks left by the recent waves of headcount realignments! Stay productive!
I have always firmly believed that the best Christmas is a homemade Christmas. Can you whittle? If so, whittle some arms, legs and facial features out of limbs (which are available for free in any park, often laying on the ground), add a potato and – voila – it’s Spud Man! Sock puppets, popcorn balls and even string make for great gifts. Just add a little imagination! Office supplies can also be great toys, such as paperclips or copier paper. Learning origami would be a blast! Just don’t get caught!


Dear H.R. Specialist:

I’m living in a box near the beach. I used to make six figures. Can things get any worse?

Ralph in Florida

Dear Ralph:

Worse!?! Are you kidding? I’d kill for beachfront property! You’re not down-and-out, you’re out-and-about with all the seafood you can catch and eat. I bet you have a great tan!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A note to all of my loyal readers: Have you ever noticed all of the canned good collection bins outside of supermarkets? Think of them as mini-groceries! I know that I can never get enough of canned corn!

Next week’s column: Unconventional clothing, using the E.R. as a family doctor, and careers in scrap collection.


© 2008 John D. Pierce

On the Origin of the Fish Fry

This is the story of a guy named Jonah and how he came to be associated with fish fries throughout the Midwest. Maybe in the Northeast, South, and West as well. I don’t know for sure. My research budget was rather limited.

In the Midwest, and maybe elsewhere (see above), it is common for service organizations, schools, fire departments and other civic minded groups–not to be confused with civet minded groups, who usually congregate near zoos–to sponsor meals consisting of fried fish and side dishes. In the singular, such a meal is called a “fish fry,” which is from the Latin, of course. Not content with the seemingly self-explanatory moniker “fish fry,” however, many groups go a step further. It is not uncommon, which means the same thing as “it is common” (see above), for the name “Jonah” to be added in front of “fish fry,” creating a new entity, the “Jonah fish fry.”

At this point I would like for you to refer to my pamphlet “Jonah: His Life, Legacy and Impact on Modern Food-Based Fund Raising” for some background on Jonah. “Like” is the operative word. Approximately six months ago, while preparing to write this article, I approached the good people running this magazine with the simple proposition that my pamphlet (see above) be distributed to the subscribers to this magazine at least two weeks prior to the mailing date of the issue in which this article appears. Additionally, I thought it reasonable that the pamphlet be made available free wherever this magazine is sold, provided that those who took it signed a binding pledge to purchase the issue of the magazine in which this article appears or return the pamphlet to the publisher using the postage paid envelope stuck inside.

As you are probably well aware, the good folks at this magazine did not, in fact, provide you, gentle reader, with the pamphlet prior to publication. Therefore, with the exception of the 150 or so people who received the copies that I was able to distribute in front of the tanning salon the other day, you are thrown into this article lacking the deep understanding of Jonah that would make this article so enriching and edifying.

If you would like to stop now and give me a call, I would be happy to read the pamphlet to you over the telephone. If not, please continue, keeping in mind that there are subtleties that you will never, ever, ever–not in a million years–understand.

To drastically oversimplify, Jonah was a guy who lived in Bible times. He didn’t do something that God wanted him to, so God had him swallowed up by a big fish. God eventually made the big fish spit Jonah back up. If you happen to be one of the lucky few with my pamphlet, please reference the section regarding the Orwellian implications of the Jonah story.

This is where the story gets interesting. The Dead Sea Scrolls, found in caves on the West Bank, describe what happened afterwards. Being somewhat of an amateur biblical scholar, I have translated several passages that I found reprinted on the back of a placemat at Ye Wayward Children House of Pancakes down at the State Road 38 exit off of the interstate. The pamphlet contains photographs of both the placemats and the sausage and hashbrown pancake wrap that I usually order. It really is too bad about the pamphlets.

As an aside, my wife told me that I am not qualified to translate the Dead Sea Scrolls–said that I need a degree in ancient languages. I was ready for that. I threw the old “Woman be still” line from the New Testament right back at her. Combined with a few other alleged incidents, that is the reason that I now have to speak to her through her lawyer.

What I found in the Dead Sea Scrolls is a tale that not only explains the origin of the Jonah fish fry, but a beautiful tale of improvised food preparation that was inexplicably edited out of the Torah and, later, the Old Testament.

The story that I found reads as follows:

Upon being spit out of the belly of the great fish, Jonah gathered around him a multitude of the faithful. After bathing first, of course, for Jonah smelleth of the belly of a fish, not an especially pleasant smell, especially considering the number of days and nights that Jonah spent in there, with little to do but sleep and beggeth God to get him out of the belly of the fish.

Low and behold, Jonah sayeth unto the multitude “those of ye with names [endnote 1] beginning with the letters A through F [endnote 2], getteth knives and cutteth up the fish into small squares of edible flesh. G through M, maketh a batter out of cornmeal, milk and eggs, and dippeth the fish squares into the batter until it is fully coated. N through P, taketh the battered fish squares and cooketh them until golden brown and cooked through, then taketh the cooked fish squares and placeth them on buns. P through Q, maketh side dishes to serve with the fish sandwiches, such as cole slaw and potato salad. You may also wanteth to make a few pies [endnote 3] for dessert. The rest of thine, may it pleaseth God, sell the meals to those who hunger for and clean up the tables after they eateth so that others may satiate their hunger as well. In this way shall we raiseth enough money to erect a mosaic in the temple depicting my time in the belly of the fish to all who care to gaze upon it.”

The placemat cut off the rest of the story, but it logically follows that a great feast ensued. In my pamphlet, I describe in great detail some of the foods likely to have been served at the first Jonah fish fry, including delicious lemon squares, bread made with a beer batter, and ice tea. Additionally, in my pamphlet, I discuss the revolutionary ideas associated with the first Jonah fish fry, wherein it is entirely possible that the common working man–shepherd, fisherman, boatbuilder–sat down with the social elite–the Pharisees, priests and other old-timey bible-type leaders– wherein they ate a meal together at long tables in the rec hall of the temple. By my estimation, this was the beginnings of socialism– nearly two million years before Marx.

All of that was covered in my pamphlet, which, of course, most of you haven’t read. I am assuming that most of you will opt to call me and have the pamphlet read to you, but keep in mind that there is only one of me and millions of you. I believe that the process of reading the pamphlet to each of you will take nearly a month, if I leave time for meals and restroom breaks. So, if you don’t get me on the first try, keep calling back.


1. Of course, all of the Bible people had only one name. Last names were invented in 1611 as a means to distinguish between different individuals after an incident wherein a commoner named Geoffry was given 19,000 acres of land on the outskirts of London because he was mistaken for a nobleman who was also named Geoffry. The commoner was thereafter known as Geoffry Landed, and the nobleman as Geoffry DeFucked.

2. They didn’t use our letters, of course. They had their own bible-type letters back then.

3. In Bible times the word “pie” could mean nearly any dessert item, including cakes, cookies, fudge or even brownies, but never pudding. Pudding was reserved solely for the priests who would eat it in the presence of the ark of the covenant.



© 2008 John D. Pierce