Point and Shoot, Florida (YU)--Heap didn't know what his legacy was going to be, but it wouldn't be he didn't try, or he tried and failed, then quit, became bitter, or sold out.

He produced a body of work, his stack, invented a form to present it in, daily typewriting, and found a way to get it out to his coterie of steadfast readers, the Buzzard Cult, self-published pamphlets and a web site on the worldwide web.

He'd put that up against the books Robert Stone wrote, the books Ken Kesey wrote, even the books Larry McMurtry wrote, except for Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen: Reflections at 60 and Beyond.

He'd put SQUIBS up against Remembering the Sixties.

He wasn't a failure, he was a success. He just, his success was unrecognized. It was a secret. He was undiscovered.

He was the best-kept secret in American letters.

In a way, that was better than having had a mentor, having had help, having won prizes and awards, money and fame, recognition for achievement.

It kept Heap lean and hungry, motivated, pissed off and hurt, perplexed.

He remembered all those old bebop tunes, with names like "Now's the Time," or "Lester Leaps In," or "Little Willie Leaps."

"Leap Frog."

John Bennett told him one he was goat leaps ahead of the people he was jealous of.

Relax. Stop sweating the small shit.

Of course, that was 25 years ago.