Today is IdleNoMore's Day of Action
It snowed outside.
The train just whistled by.
In the otherwise muffled quiet I chose as my action, I hear your voices,
For more than two years, I've been walking around with you in my head, wondering what it means that a poet should die, that I should never have the opportunity to sit across from you at our weekly potlucks, to play bridge with you on Wednesdays, to visit you at that ward in the hospital.
Do you know how much Andre & I loved you when we first met at BSPS? Jules was interesting, but you were great.
("The soft you are, you just are." That was my favourite and, as Andre reminded me at the time of your death: I did pull it out quite a lot).
picking up a cigarette butt
this morning was better
with cream on the table"
[You're nodding up there. I know it.]
Andre and I typed that one in my South Park apartment and Joe published it in BSPS. Someone dubbed us Halifax' Simone de Beauvoir & Jean Paul Sartre, but we knew better. You were always the genuine article, our guru of poetry & philosophy.
"Oh, you'll be angry" Andre wrote,"Karl didn't demonize me after we broke up, he just tried to pick you up, and I appreciated that about him, too."
That was after the horrific accident and you wrote about my 29-yr-old widowed sister:
"how long will she
put up with her own smile
when she is crying
from every fingertip"
I didn't realize I would miss you so much. Miss you as a possibility, someone I would just sit down with and talk to some day and you'd deal me a hand like no time had passed. (You weren't really into time.)
Why was a man like you, Karl, born to die? Andre said he felt like a character out of Dickens lamenting that the good part of the world is gone. I feel that way tonight.
The last poem you read to us at our Sunday potlucks:
who knows what circumstances
beyond the horizons lie
and as the surface blossoms
on a tree in spring
the questions grow and grow
until we die
and then and only then
the silence we now shout
will be our memory
Requiescat in pace,