Phil Goldvarg's service is tommorrow and Kevin Porter and I have spent the evening at the bookstore, cutting Phil's poems between swigs of Guiness left over from Bloomsday, getting the booklets ready for distribution. I feel fortunate that Phil was able to see all these little books of his poems, months before his death; that they served as a tribute to him as he was alive, just as they do now at his death. For what can I say, that can't be said better by others standing before his coffin, facing out to an audience of admirers of the man? My best tribute is to hand a person a handful of Phil's poems. More Guiness. Max Schwartz arrives; Buzzes around the place as we cut, fold, staple. Daughter Ru plays close by.