Trying to Hug a Memory named Mike

You become another name
On the Dead Poet’s list
“We honor our mighty fallen,
And the name: Vampyre Mike Kassel
On Chris and Deirdre’s May Day flyere.
And in obituaries, both
In the Guardian
And in the regular newspaper
(I found your obit in that one
Thumbing through the paper
In the psych ward:
“Hey, nurse, I knew this guy”.
“That’s interesting, Kathleen,
But it’s time for me to take your vitals….”
“Mighty Fallen”.
That phrase means I can never call you,
Never share a cigarette
(Homage to the God of Slow Death).
Never hold you in my arms.
Never hear you tell me
I am obligated to be his sex toy
Because “actions have consequences”.
And I’ll never hear your love, concern,
And sincere worry about me.
Such a hodgepodge of losses
Of “never agains”
Quite a recipe for
Extended grief.
“Our might fallen”
Who won’t/can’t/needen’t get up again.,
A friend tells me
If you make it through
All the crap this plane
Of existence dishes out
All the physical and psychic pain
All the betrayals and evil taunts
All the shit they throw in your face
Without consciously commiting suicide,
You’re done with your latest life lessons.
Your soul can rest without pain
Until youis ready to choose your next  life.
Hey, Mike, you made it
God-damn, man, you had balls!
Doesn’t matter you drank.
Doesn’t matter you smoked.
Who gives a shit
That you fucked any woman who would say “yes”.
Right up to a few weeks before you died.
You rode it out.
I see you floating, flaying
Checking  up on us as you see fit
(Probably not too happy
About some of our activities)
No pain.  No fear.
“Our mighty fallen”
Mike, I will love you
To my own grave.
You were a true Viking
A true bard,
And a real dark-hippie hearthrob.
If any part of my sadness
Binds you to this hell-plane,
I regretfully cut the cord

© Katherine Wood
April 2008

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