I’ve never spoken of these words,
Yet must, now.
If you die, lord forbid me,
There are choices to be made
Of my doing.
Not of death
But where you would go.
For if I bury you
Just 6 feet under from where heart stood
Giving you back to mother earth,
The green ground would shake below me.
For you would be writing prose
With Satan himself
While smoking cigarettes and talking
About how you both loath god.
Weak knees, tremble from thought,
Bound and bruised
Wounded from kneeling
In constant prayer
Of you being right there
Caged and encompassed in a
Without being able to embrace you.
Perhaps cremate your temple
Turning all that you once touched
Into firefly cinder
Sending you back to the stars
Off the coast of Seattle
As you drift emotionless
Into the ashes of air
Towards the heavens above.
You would have no choice
But to soar into the universe
Abound rapturously needle threaded and
bound by infinity
With the forced procreation of
Black holes; merged with
Mars and Venus divide.
Nonetheless, tell me love
Is it selfish of hands to consider
Contemplating whether to hold
You captive or set you free.
If I contain you imprisoned
On my mantle, openly concealed in
Prized cold marble as you patiently sit there
With tumultuous echoes of your poetry
Read to you. We would both
Be in close proximity
Intertwined with space and
Time of never losing sight of one another.
Then I could at least
Respectfully cast your beloved soot
Rubbing it between my finger
Dispersing the literary jewel of literature
Over thinned flesh
So you forever linger.
(for leigh) January 25, 1959 to June 4, 2014
for he too was a poet, better than me (or is it I?),
better than most; he was a literary genius and
profoundly infatuated with the bitterness
of life. he was never happy, only when