Sad eyes peering out of a returned book of poetry divulge the history of a man and a quality of despair unmatched.
(Instant in a bar; glasses clash, clink, collide)
Increasingly sapped of strength and worn down by [mostly self-inflicted] blows, our friend rode often the snake to the other side - his mind both tempered and informed by genius + a manic, narcissistic personality.
There, in fever dreams, in shamanistic drug visions, he sewed together words and worlds, beckoning us with images that we did not understand and yet left us at last robbed of our despondency.
Those same eyes, still sad, yet still burning intently, stared out at last from a weary, alcoholic frame.
A physical decline, sure, but, then, it mattered little because he eventually died, amidst scattered mystery and a burst heart.
And, while the book of poetry was returned with edges worn and pages creased, it should be told that the magic of the words within - the symbolism, the metaphors, his juxtaposition of images - were as potent as always.
A clear reminder, naturally, that while the frame can be broken the core will remain always powerful always unmarred.
“Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened & the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus'd searching
here & there for teachers & friends.
Written on Tuesday, 28 September 2004