Kamikaze air and the ghost of Rimbaud haunted and hunted you down
in sweltering, diseased-ridden San Francisco during the last gasp
of many angels.
I'd be pleasantly relieved to know the two of you had finally met.
Your lumberjack spirit, clumsy as ever, rushes in, knocking shit over.
Delighted to witness something else being dashed to bits.
It's that kind of life followed by the same kind of death. (anonymous?)
No one can hope to survive holding more than their breath.
Sweating it out under the heat lamp of "progress" until those last,
sweetly agonizing
moments collapse.
Face down again, pal.
I must confess I never knew you as flesh yet I was instantly
transfixed by the impossible
love your poems attest to.
The bright darkness, limitless depths.
Poetry became a hole you would never crawl out of but I thank you as
the muse demanded your death,
I feel blessed by your burden.
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