THIS MIGHT BE DIFFICULT
A man I once knew as alive is dead - not the first,
mind you, but another in a line. I barely outrun the
bunch of them. Suicide, bullet to the head, cancer,
motorcycle death, diabetes, stroke, aneurysm...
I'm naming but a few for those inclined to know.
Not a one of them did I truly 'know' in that sense of
a science or a chemistry of knowledge or psychology.
In fact, the whole entire lot of them baffled me always -
left me stranded, bereft, without too much emotion.
Misunderstanding all I saw, so to say. But I was never
too much concerned. I'd listen and nod - whom they'd
just fucked, where she was now, how it went with
Lola or Cindy or Jane, career crap, exploits, every
outrageous claim. The idiot with his made-up shit, stories
of expensive clothes and imported denims and leathers,
three-thousand dollar sunglasses, whose ass he'd just kissed.
I was supposed to be impressed - by such fucking lies do
you know them. Reality being, he was probably a psychotic
freak still locked in a cage. But one alone. There were the
others, more sensible, more gentle, sweet and kind. The
writer friend, living alone like a snipe in a garrett, unsure of
everything but his isolation and distance. Much like me -
I had to say 'yes!' to that. The academics, the union guys,
the ones with the money and big jobs. Everyone a circus unto
himself, my guys, one by one passing dead for death and
gone for forever. It's so fucking over everyday.
No more, no never.
