for Marshall Mancuso (1980-2016)

In a blue-bell’s dewy center I spied                                                                                             your astral eye                                                                                                                                     the child you- the one I never knew, but guessed at.

Dis-embodiment, one may have slurringly suggested –                                                              in your days of healing sculptures; quartz and copper hanging                                           from the ceiling over prostrate forms of revelers                                                                        in Drum+Bass nights of E and K and Xanax                                                                               before Heroin –

“Dis-embodiment will free us, Death’s a friend, man-”                                                              the twin of birth                                                                                                                                 and dark is day and shadow                                                                                                             just a ray of sun you’ve stared too long at.

That last long-distance phone-call I stood in my kitchen and your voice came splintered and syrupy through the line saying you needed a ride to the other side of Boston to pick up a sculpture and you were lonely and you regret that we never slept together and all I could say was well I’m married so it will never happen now but I’m your friend Marshall I’m in California Marshall you’re supposed to be a healer, remember? Marshall there’s nothing I can do I’m 3000 miles away right now I’m 3000 miles away

I remember us swing dancing in the band room in the basement of the theater building at Roxbury Latin during a dress rehearsal for the Pillars of Society                                       you were 17 blue eyed dark haired handsome Italian kid from Millis introduced me to P-funk and taught me by example how to properly tell a story                                                   I was 16, tow-head tomboy Dot-rat rolling over your broad back and laughing you made it impossible to hate myself

Now I want to ask you                                                                                                                       what is Nothingness?                                                                                                                         does it resound, the Void? Can you eavesdrop                                                                               on its self-interrogations?

And since you’re there forever can you build                                                                                  an infinite machine                                                                                                                               to heal where Time is torn and to                                                                                             restore a past of earnest speculation

to cast out Morpheus and Loki and begin again?

 

 

 

*painting by William Blake (The Goblin)

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