tribute

“Out of the smouldering ashes of Stone Anniversary IPAs . . .”

                                                                                 Stone Revelation Ale

How good is it . . . its so audacious hoppy and addicting

a guy will opt for a 22

over head

                                                                                                                How good it is . . . 

he’ll even tell the gal about his opt-ion

                   How good is it . . . after she takes a sip off his Revelation

she’ll stick around until he finishes it

and still give him head

                                                                                                                   How good . . . 

Revelation goes down both ways

1810,  Twosday,  6  3. 14

skin a cat

he never found his way out

he  did  try

he tried for a long while

and when it seemed to him hed exhausted all avenues  

                                                                                      he stopped looking

I encouraged him to keep at it  pull at its seams for shortcuts gangways fuckin alleys

--   Theres always another way to skin a cat

I dont wanna skin a cat he said

Yeah  I said  Sorry thats called a euphemism

he said it sounded even worse

he was such a big kid  physically  I always forgot the smaller one rummaging around inside

his skull wasnt more than nine

but then that concept prejudiced me  it didnt help  Id been a precocious nine year old 

I couldnt utter precocious  it would sound even worse than euphemism

I had to take a step further down the footladder and speak even more plainly to him

--   Theres something there for you  I know it

--   Well mebbe  But I dont care any more

he wasnt stupid

he saw the unspoken protest in my face

--   You must realize you care more than I do  dont you

I thought his remark brazen   and terribly accurate

--   Hey you have your pipe dreams for me  And for you  Do us both a favor and chase yours 

Thatd make me happier than skinning some cat

Then he stood abruptly grasped my shoulder once and walked away aimlessly lighting

a cigarette as he went

--   Hey that shit aint good for your health your doctors say  Fucks with your medications

without looking over his shoulder he gave me the bird as he shook out the flame from the

match

--   I aint takin my meds  I dont like how they make me feel   I feel  unreal

I shouted Theyre for your HEALTH

--   YOU AINT LISTENIN

if he said anything more it was lost in the noise of a passing truck  then he didnt

acknowledge me calling his name after him

You aint listenin 

                          always hung in my ears when wed meet again over the ensuing years

and there werent many

he went on and off his meds countless times  blatantly and loudly or on the sly

I understood he was back on them when his heart attacked him and killed him  despite

the additional day afterwards on life-support faking life

when the doctor finally pulled the plug on his machine

he probably beat their residual lights going out

the machine heat slowly leeched from his body

his features went ashen 

air slipped from his throat like air passing out of a deflating balloon

     then I heard

I heard it just above in his voice

                                                  You aint listenin

thinking  now

it was an accusation levelled at all of us who wanted for him

maybe who fairy-tale-wanted more than the cold hard facts

                                                                                                                 who was deluded

the scarce nine year old

or the adults

                                                                                                          1541,  Sunday,  25  8. 13

blue guitar

her blue guitar leans in the corner

against the stereo speaker

where she placed it

she liked as she used to tell him in bed after they made love how invisible fingers

radiating from the speaker held it stroked it strings played impossible chords

the guitar sounded so different

shed never be able to recreate that music  imagine or remember it

she said often the music was in accord to the music hed play during their lazy afternoons together

his imperfect scratched 78s the keenly-guarded refined 33 1/3s  and those raucous 45s

she loved the echoes in her guitar its reverberations slipping like snakes in its chamber

she loved how the wind moving through the house visited it too  

those days when she complained it was too cold and why did he have to have the house open  

and on those days when the house was too hot
and the overhead fanblades were desperate to have their go at it
and the days since
when she hadnt been there to complain

but he would imagine she did
imagine all the qualities of her voiceits timbre and tone

when she was elated

or distraught

when she was dreamy and contemplative

or singing with her eyes closed

all her persons he loved  and didnt  that she shared with him every moment they improbably had  

without thought hesitation  or reservation

they  figuring improbably  that they would always have
stretched across the wide warm gulf of their living together

and now the sound hole of her guitar seemed far far larger  for each and every day

they didnt have

he was jealous of her guitar

her fingerprints her tentarch orweretheywhorls invisibly etched onto its strings  

its frets and tuning keys

                         her oils and scent on it

they were gone from him

                     his midnight showers eroded them from his skin its streams of water deafening his ears so he couldnt hear his crying or feel his hot tears running down his face
deafening him
a reason he fingered
because he could no longer hear her       

hear her voices 
feel her touch

blue

      her blue guitar

leaning dusty at the speaker

near the albums and jackets and paper slips brittlely ageing  yellowing  without the kiss of sunlight

as he

without her kisses

warm touches

reviving strokes


blue

1502,  Clover Sunday,  1  6. 14