Wednesday, May 9, 2012

some old photographs, some poem.

Eulogy for a Philosophy Major Who Believed in God


And this is how things begin, with questions
you or me or even Dr. Ault can’t answer like
What is Karma and Why do young people die
in the Spring?  Our after-class cigarettes smell
wet and wormy.  Soggy sticks. Corpses--No!  Kids don’t die
in real life.  Not Here not Now not Ever and what’s real anyway,
man?  Puff. Tastes like Europe. 
Puff Puff. Spain.   


You roll your paper delicado, a scroll unraveling
a Don Quixote myth, his vision, your vision, my vision---
I’m confusing your vision with mine.  Puff.  Remember. Puff.
Remember the night I saw your veins
for a second.  Your match shone through your skin. Hot.
Delicado. I used to paint skulls over the Bible verses
in your pocket, saying Dr. Ault can’t be right about archetypes so
Why exist?  And you said Puff. 


I don’t want to lie.
I don’t remember what you said. 
Your match went out.  I went so Spain.
Your match went out so I went to Spain where your vision became my vision
And I am hot and unfair. And this
is how things end.  Thick.  Indelicate.
With questions.

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