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It was

It was not moonless or cloudy that night—
   but like being in an enclosed room
   where the light was doused
It was his feisty, external and final dark bloom

He was always fat and now was thin
   The disease ate at him from inside
   Now we knew exactly what
the bottom smelled like

To exchange one orthodoxy for another
   is not to advance
   Don’t let them see you down, he said
Shower, brush your teeth, dress decently

As we get older we experience the ends of stories
   not just their fiery middles or lively starts
   She was so distorted, so cruel, so mad in those eyes
she’d refuse to look at herself in mirrors

We are flawed and must come to terms
   One is always evasive,
   the other in a state of acute, paralytic languor
He lastly refused to re-enter the chaos of that particular burn

His appetites were aggressive
   A vindictive, obsessive, lively lover
   As energetic about sex as he was about all else
With him it was always something astonishing and big

He’d make us all spaghetti with red sauce
   and go around the table with smiles and pats of butter
   which he’d melt into the sauce and witticisms and fine thoughts
and a block of parmesan cheese which he’d grate for us fresh

Would it have been better not to die in a storm?
   Beethoven died in a storm
   So separate and alone, so defiant like all
who have fallen or who will fall

You get me off track when you talk of her, he said
   You’ll get the wrong impression and find in me a weepy guy
   I’m not, please understand, inclined to weep anymore
This life that I live, it’s just what I wanted

 

-November 25, 2012-