I look at the dishes stacked.
The Day is coming.
A day to remember a friend,
Closer than any one friend,
More distant than most.
Richer than all.
Canvas first,
Still-life in frenzy and rushing to fill spaces,
Voids.
Colors.
And crashes,
Black and outlined
With emotion and rarity.
Palin,
Hawking self in still sticky oils and spray.
A reality between Men,
A Being,
Thinking,
Commonality.
Overstood to the bone,
Through the seams of our clothing,
And the seeds of our dreams.
A simple beard on your shoulder all-is-right connection.
Fuck the Aldo and the dry-cleaning, the spray-paint and tattoo tears.
Brotherhood.
Potent Homogeny.
The eye contact of a Man.
Who knows honor.
And a student who seeks to define it differently.
Stories,
Of worse and happy times.
The tears and family,
An understanding of death
And pain.
The sometimes scary of a starved-self,
Struggling for relief in the ripples of life.
Becoming waves crashing
Deep and dark
Without a shore
In lonesome, cold, night.
I worked the night we lit candles.
I thought about Marlborough 100’s.
Palm fronds,
And You,
Calling me “Danny”
Last in the rain.
“Thanks” and “Giving”
Puffy eyed at the table,
Broken hearted.
Eulogizing,
Explaining
Erupting.
Yearning for the tactile
Referencing the trace, the tender
Reserved,
For Me, Ours and Us.
And memories of a gentle, troubled, teacher
Taken.
I miss your place in my simple,
You in my definition.
I wish I had more,
Unedited pages for you,
My friend. 1973
©DANIEL MORTON 2011
©DANIEL MORTON 2011
