a tribute to best friends, vrs. 1

of accountability:
that time you sat, cross-eyed, limber,
with a dark ale and a premium roast in either hand,
singing the blues with your electric guitar
thumbing the melody with your ring finger
and forming the chords with your big toe

smiling at me, and back again to yourself,
and sometimes at your cup of coffee,
which narcissistically said:
"caution,
handle with care.
i'm hot"

i knew what was going through your head.
that one time, you spent hours upon hours with your head bowed in meditation.
i could hear you, whispering
silently as the golden rays rose above your head,
with praise, praise, praise
to whatever at the time you deemed immortal.

you were only tainted by
the little pieces of white
powder dancing around
your nose.

on your bookshelf, a guide to mycology;
in your stereo, the newest crystal castles
or maybe it was the newest michael franti
or maybe it was beethoven, mozart, debussy

maybe it was bessie, one arm hanging out of a window,
letting the heat engulf her with particles of sweat,
enjoying the smell of blooming may apples
for the very last time;

you looked like that.
close to death, and yet so close to
the beauty of life that it would
be impossible
to think
of
anything
else