We would explode some nights.
I was such a terrible friend.
I’ve never deserved any of them
and that is especially the case for
those that invited me into their lives most.
He was like most in the fact
that he could control
and lose control of himself
no matter how much he drank
and snorted and fucked, he never
lost his “wind cut suave”.
That was one of our sayings.
We have thousands now.
Knowing us is like reading
A Clockwork Orange
without the dictionary at the back.
I’ve cursed at him a blue streak.
He’s pummeled me or threatened worse
with a single, well-known look.
We talked about our poetry,
we laughed about everything,
mocked everything sacred,
defied every sense of decorum.
Drank the well dry.
Snapping back and forth,
we started an art between us.
Like a demon it grew to undermine
even our modest attempts at control.
When she left me he calmed me down
and rationalized me with a stern talk.
I was in a state. I had whipped my
baby blue typewriter at a wall and
sworn off love of any kind. I was drunk.
When the drugs crept into me and
I was a marionette on fire, he grabbed me
and shook me back into a state with which
I could at least understand my ultimatums.
When I forget with a heavy dose of hate,
my obligation to write, it is always his words
which fulfill my need for inspiration.
I won’t let anyone get the last ones.
Not even you, old friend.
One day we will skirt through
New York in a limo
rails and some dj bl3nd playing.
One day, film
an entire scene of our banter
with all parenthesis included
in off beat,
quick turn to another camera angle