Gregory Corso is dead at 70. I always forget somehow that the Beat poets age. Something about the way they entered the nation's consciousness lives on, as if they're forever these young, vital artists crashing through the barricades of propriety. I remember how surprised I was when I saw Allen Ginsberg almost 10 years ago and realized that he looked a lot like my dad—glasses, balding, distinguished professorial goatee, and in a suit. He was, however, most assuredly himself—reading old and new poems, singing and accompanying himself on the harmonium, and generally raising a ruckus. I feel very fortunate to have seen him when I did.