“The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.”  — William Shakespeare, “Julius Caesar”

Jimmy Marvin died
on a railroad track
where he’d passed out
after one last night
of fighting and drinking,
drugging and pissing
people off. 

No one would let him
crash at their house that night,
since he’d broken so much furniture
and burned down every bridge,
so he slept where he fell,
and the train cut him in half.

Once his fire
had been smothered
and all that was left
was the charred surfaces
he’d roared over
in his race to burn,
it was easy to forget
that there had been light
around him, too,
in the times I saw Jimmy
share his smokes or beer with us
in the moments before he became
his normal night time raging self,
swinging wildly
on friend or stranger alike
at imagined slights, pushing himself
on girls he’d just met,
and all his blind inattention
to the rules of keeping safe
and sane.   

Whenever
his name is mentioned,
his friends point
only at what was destroyed
and shake their heads.
It will likely stay that way
for as long as he’s remembered.

There’s something to be said for that, say
all the immoral immortals;
better to burn out than it is to rust,
burn the candle at both ends, etc.,
and don’t take much care as to who
loses skin in the process,
as long as it’s not you.

Do unto others,
then split; when in doubt,
freak out — things
Jimmy always said
before he turned up dead,
and I can remember those lines
better than I can
his jokes.  Nonetheless,
eventually we just let him die out there
on the tracks,
but we have not forgotten him,

no matter how hard we’ve tried.

Onward to
a Meaningless Goal —
upon death,
to be recognized for
most toys,
best artist,
most tragic figure,
grayest beard,
longest torture session —

whatever.

They’ll surely put roses on
your chest either way.  That’s
The Big Prize —
a well adorned corpse.

Onward then into
the night, collecting
markers all the way.

All you ever are
in the end is your leftovers,
and all you can hope for is that they will feed
those left wanting in your wake.

Seeing you slip
toward fiction

your firm arms
becoming a memory
nestled in your softening brain

fearfully opening
the book of myths
to see yourself there

I keep reminding myself
that myth is strong
and fiction rules the hours

between dark and light
I want to remind you too

but there’s already so much water
between my side of the River
and the one you are approaching

all I can do
is wave after you
hoping you’ll turn back to see

how deep
into the myths
I am already planted
how strong the story
you’ve left me to live by

Memorable dog
that you are, pissing
on your trees,
lying down in prime sun to sleep,
offering a belly for my comfort
when I need to touch living flesh,
alerting on the slightest triviality
and reporting it to all:
“THERE! THERE! THERE! THERE!”

I”m going to miss you
one of these days, I know
that already.  No way we’ll
spend the rest of our time
together, bud; you’ll go on
before me, you and your
signal tail and fresh eyes
on things I’ve long ignored.

I’m sure I’m going to see you
when I get there, wherever
it is. There will have to be things
I need to see, or will want
to see.  Bud, I’m counting on you:

wait for me, just like you do now,
and shake a tail when you see me;
roll around in front of me
and then leap up like your old
puppy self and point me
toward the good stuff, the bad stuff,
all the stuff; tell me all about it, Bud,
with a sun drenched yelp of
“THERE! THERE! THERE! THERE!”