No Bones.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
She really did love you, Rob. He really did love you, Lindsy. I really do miss them, Tim. I really wanted you to know them, Caily. I really love you, Daddy. The fabric wears thin. The pages turn and sometimes new chapters have to begin. I like my shoebox most of all. More than the comfort of nothing at all. Grief defines us. So we should let it. It is what binds us and shows us the way.
Abbott, thanks for your hope in me. Thanks for seeing me through the rough times. I just wish that you could have seen me walk into the good ones lately. I’m sorry, that you never saw me well again. Just hopped up on Percocet and amused at the wall. But I know that you’d walk me through hell again as soon as down the hall. You were right all along. And I suppose that’s the Tao. We were destined for bigger than right here and right now. And I know that you’d have me not cry for you but I cry for me because it was just a little to soon. At least for my tastes. I’ll see you again friend. I promise I’ll tip my hat. And when I'm in Canada, fighting the better fight. It will partly be in your honor. I’ll burn my American Spirit in a stream of smoke. From my lips to yours. All I ask is that you go with me when I see all the far off places alone that you were going to show me. Cheers, mate.
Jenny. The love of my dear friends life. And therefore, indirectly, and somewhat, the love of mine. I tried my best. I hope it was enough. It was a big responsibility and an honor to be the one to speak on behalf of all your friends. They were big shoes to fill. I liked it best when you made it snow on everyone on that hill. I stayed with him through it as best I could. I don’t have the right lips to kiss his knuckles after the bad nights. So we would smoke instead. I didn’t have the right arms to hold him while he cried as you were passing through his head. But I did honest by him Jenny. I promise. We laughed as often as we cried. That was the best I could do. I’m sorry Jen. He had me when he really wanted you. I just miss you. Thanks for letting me watch a journey. Thanks for showing me what love looks like again. Thanks for letting me see the meeting, courting, marriage and love, and including me in the end. I’ll cherish the experience of your love with Rob as somewhat my own forever.
Scotty. Your little boy is beautiful. Your wife has done good. We could have been better at doing the things for him as men that we thought you would. We were young. The number of friends in the ground was small. We didn’t know how to do it yet. And that isn’t an excuse. It’s an explanation. But know that your little boy can shoot a basketball with the best of them. Know that your father has seen to it that he has wanted for nothing. And when he makes that call to you, he still is hoping to make his daddy proud. The love between a father and son can’t be separated by a shroud. Scotty, I admire your death. I know that’s strange. Let me back up. Or at least rearrange… I would die like you did were it up to me. I can only hope. Self sacrifice is the only altruistic form of suicide and therefore the bravest. If I were in your place, I hope I’d have done the same. If there is a way to win, I’d say you’ve beaten this game. We all came back to honor you. Know that. The gang was all there. Missing the one who wasn’t.
The world clips on year by year. And the muddled mess becomes a little more clear. What is it they always say? We live and we learn. And then what? We die? I’d like to believe I’ve lived. And I’ll preface that with the understanding that I really don’t know shit and I have plenty more living to do. Be it alone or God willing with one or more of you. And if I’ve lived then maybe I’ve learned.
And here is what I think. I promise to be brief. We learn to live when we love. And the cost of loving is grief.
But had I to do it all over again, I’d live and learn once more, I think, with each of you, my friends.
¶ 1:55 PM 0 comments
Abbott, thanks for your hope in me. Thanks for seeing me through the rough times. I just wish that you could have seen me walk into the good ones lately. I’m sorry, that you never saw me well again. Just hopped up on Percocet and amused at the wall. But I know that you’d walk me through hell again as soon as down the hall. You were right all along. And I suppose that’s the Tao. We were destined for bigger than right here and right now. And I know that you’d have me not cry for you but I cry for me because it was just a little to soon. At least for my tastes. I’ll see you again friend. I promise I’ll tip my hat. And when I'm in Canada, fighting the better fight. It will partly be in your honor. I’ll burn my American Spirit in a stream of smoke. From my lips to yours. All I ask is that you go with me when I see all the far off places alone that you were going to show me. Cheers, mate.
Jenny. The love of my dear friends life. And therefore, indirectly, and somewhat, the love of mine. I tried my best. I hope it was enough. It was a big responsibility and an honor to be the one to speak on behalf of all your friends. They were big shoes to fill. I liked it best when you made it snow on everyone on that hill. I stayed with him through it as best I could. I don’t have the right lips to kiss his knuckles after the bad nights. So we would smoke instead. I didn’t have the right arms to hold him while he cried as you were passing through his head. But I did honest by him Jenny. I promise. We laughed as often as we cried. That was the best I could do. I’m sorry Jen. He had me when he really wanted you. I just miss you. Thanks for letting me watch a journey. Thanks for showing me what love looks like again. Thanks for letting me see the meeting, courting, marriage and love, and including me in the end. I’ll cherish the experience of your love with Rob as somewhat my own forever.
Scotty. Your little boy is beautiful. Your wife has done good. We could have been better at doing the things for him as men that we thought you would. We were young. The number of friends in the ground was small. We didn’t know how to do it yet. And that isn’t an excuse. It’s an explanation. But know that your little boy can shoot a basketball with the best of them. Know that your father has seen to it that he has wanted for nothing. And when he makes that call to you, he still is hoping to make his daddy proud. The love between a father and son can’t be separated by a shroud. Scotty, I admire your death. I know that’s strange. Let me back up. Or at least rearrange… I would die like you did were it up to me. I can only hope. Self sacrifice is the only altruistic form of suicide and therefore the bravest. If I were in your place, I hope I’d have done the same. If there is a way to win, I’d say you’ve beaten this game. We all came back to honor you. Know that. The gang was all there. Missing the one who wasn’t.
The world clips on year by year. And the muddled mess becomes a little more clear. What is it they always say? We live and we learn. And then what? We die? I’d like to believe I’ve lived. And I’ll preface that with the understanding that I really don’t know shit and I have plenty more living to do. Be it alone or God willing with one or more of you. And if I’ve lived then maybe I’ve learned.
And here is what I think. I promise to be brief. We learn to live when we love. And the cost of loving is grief.
But had I to do it all over again, I’d live and learn once more, I think, with each of you, my friends.
¶ 1:55 PM 0 comments
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Standing in the pool of light. Moving in small circles. Smiling. Glancing. Talking in brief phrases, punctuated by laughter. And all the while aware that things had shifted. The planes of our potential, meeting, and pushing, and forming a snowy mountain between us. And each wrapped in skins marching up the face between the tall pines to crest the top and over, if need be. Me, crashing into you and you in to me. In my head the mantra goes on. Verse by verse. Each one with it's own meaning but the words not varying a jot. As easily constant as, "She loves me. She loves me not."
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Over and over. Hoping that something in the way the light from the stars catching my eye would convey these words to you. That it would stop you from continuing on, into the night, away from me, and gone.
And I am left with coyote to howl at the moon. He and I in harmony, screaming a woeful tune, with words paraphrased from the tongues of Gods. Longing for you to come back soon. And each poem I write for you will be drawn upon. Little margin Picasso's of letters trying desperately to gather into an order that holds some merit or worth. My pen, racing along the line, trying to capture the feel of the goosebumped skin of your thigh. Trying to find a rhythm of rhyme that beats in time to the quickened pace of my heart when you kiss me with an unrelenting force that pushes my bleeding lip against my teeth and settles my mind into a moment of peace but frees my hands to their own devices. The kiss, feeling less like an affection and more like a crisis. And this ink rolls off my pen like saliva off of my tongue as I race along it's even lines in an attempt to scribble down something that will make you understand. I'd sacrifice every even numbered breath for the ghost of Byron to lend me a hand. As his sword/pen slashes through until the only letters that remain, when put together, cascade into a new mantra of:
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
And once again I stare at you as the earth, the moon, the sun, and the ring around my eye move in perfect circles, and hope that the way the reflection of that look, that breath, that way that you touch me, is caught in my pupil and you see it. And it stops your breath. And then your step. And you understand, somehow, that as desperately as I want to? I, sometimes, don't have the words for you.
¶ 1:10 PM 0 comments
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Don't go.
Stay with me.
Over and over. Hoping that something in the way the light from the stars catching my eye would convey these words to you. That it would stop you from continuing on, into the night, away from me, and gone.
And I am left with coyote to howl at the moon. He and I in harmony, screaming a woeful tune, with words paraphrased from the tongues of Gods. Longing for you to come back soon. And each poem I write for you will be drawn upon. Little margin Picasso's of letters trying desperately to gather into an order that holds some merit or worth. My pen, racing along the line, trying to capture the feel of the goosebumped skin of your thigh. Trying to find a rhythm of rhyme that beats in time to the quickened pace of my heart when you kiss me with an unrelenting force that pushes my bleeding lip against my teeth and settles my mind into a moment of peace but frees my hands to their own devices. The kiss, feeling less like an affection and more like a crisis. And this ink rolls off my pen like saliva off of my tongue as I race along it's even lines in an attempt to scribble down something that will make you understand. I'd sacrifice every even numbered breath for the ghost of Byron to lend me a hand. As his sword/pen slashes through until the only letters that remain, when put together, cascade into a new mantra of:
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
And once again I stare at you as the earth, the moon, the sun, and the ring around my eye move in perfect circles, and hope that the way the reflection of that look, that breath, that way that you touch me, is caught in my pupil and you see it. And it stops your breath. And then your step. And you understand, somehow, that as desperately as I want to? I, sometimes, don't have the words for you.
¶ 1:10 PM 0 comments
