A Eulogy Far Too Young 

     Michael told me on more than one occasion that, setting aside the pains of loss, he loved funerals the way he loved weddings. These are times when all the people of a person's world come together. We drink and we tell stories. We promise to see each other more and to do so much together. Most importantly, we believe it then because we want to believe. There is a time for sadness and a time to cry. We all have found this time and we will again. Gathered here today as Michael's kith and kin, we should honor him with our love for each other. We should all be the best of friends. We should be what Mike wanted us to be. Our very best. 

     When I met Michael in high school, I was a depressed, anti-social miserabalist. I was not looking for a friend. But Mike's heart was always as open as his ears, and he was relentless. In my moments of reflection over the past few days, I have realized what he really gave me. It seems that every person with whom I am close and hold important came to me through Mike. It is because of him that I have all of you and you know who you are. 

     Michael was a lot of things and always creative. A poet. A musician. A journalist. To me he will always be that rarest kind of person. An honest man. He was unquestionably the most genuine person I have ever known. He only ever demanded one thing from the people he loved. The truth. 

     Michael was a true believer in the power and importance of words. We would speak for hours about literature and suffered each others amateur work. Then he became a professional. He became an inspiration for me to turn my life around.

     I feel it is appropriate that I steal some words from a writer far more skilled than myself. A passage that may articulate how all of this feels:

     [Inside here, in this space and time], there is nothing. No bones, no dust. How surely are the dead beyond death. Death is what the living carry with them. A state of dread, like some uncanny foretaste of a bitter memory. But the dead do not remember and nothingness is not a curse. Far from it.

                                                                                                                      Suttree, Cormac McCarthy

     Michael is now free in a way that is foreign to us all. He is free from contingency and burden. For him, there is no more strife. But we are here and it is for us to remember:

Michael Bartholomew Dismas Bellmore.

A king and a fool,

But always a friend.

With clear eyes and full hearts, 

We remember.

I Left My Heart In Carcosa

I returned to the land of my birth in the year of 1895.

The great stone walls of the city were crumbled.

My steed whinnied with fear,

When I left her parked and tied to the massive iron gate.

Through the rubble of a battered city,

I sauntered.

The landscape of my youth spread out before me, torn asunder.

The homes of kith and kin annihilated. The rhythm of my boots

On the cobbled stone was all that that calmed the rising tide

Of anger and despair that churned within me.

I ascended the broken steps to the Hall of Strength.

The entrance to the Imperial Dynasty of America.

It was here amid the pale moonlight and foetid stench of ruin that

I found the King in his tattered robes

And yellow.

He stood and prodded searing coals in the pit of fire.

He wore a pallid mask.

A mask?

No mask!

How is it that so magnificent a kingdom had fallen?

Betrayal.

The betrayal of my cousin, my blood.

My King assured me a reckoning, a resurgence.

The campaign would require

New method.

I removed my armor and unsheathed my sword.

This metal was cast into the flame

And melted down into vapour.

Kneeling, I sung “Cassilda’s Song”.

My King took the brand of the Yellow Sign

And emblazoned my chest with its call.

All men would see it

And heed the Last King

In service of the lost.

(My cousin, the Betrayer, would never marry and Constance would die alone.)

Upon exiting the shattered city, I stopped and stared to the sky.

The dark stars that hung, now that the twin suns hid behind the lake Hali,

Pulsed the power of conviction into my heart. It swelled and rose

To join its brothers in the Heavens.

As I rode upon my galloping mount,

Across the burnt and ashen fields,

I knew the mystery of the Hyades

Below the circling of strange moons.

My tears were dry and my voice was dead.

The song of my soul could only ring true

In lost, dim Carcosa.

Promethean

I came down the mountain.

I lit the fire and sat to see.

You came and sat and stared at me.

I do not know you.

I never will.

The fire danced to a flamenco rhythm.

The unity was palpable.

The others gave up their fuel to the fire.

And the world burned.

Drinking and Thinking of You 2

The low lighting and drinks

That I have fired into me

Have made my gaze

Slippery at best.

Her glass is only half empty

Of a light brown ale,

Which in small swallows

She downs.

Before last call we’re leaving

To an apartment bedroom

That smells the same

As the back of her neck.

This is the moment

Where the dread begins.

The warmth of smiles

And alcohol drains

Downward on my face.

In a beautiful woman’s room

With her splayed out before me

Gently tugging me to come inside her,

I will be drunk and painless but

I will be thinking of you.

Scarface

I came

As soon as I heard what had happened.

You were still alive.

I would have thanked God

If that would have made any sense.

You were not dead.

I found you in front of your parents’ house.

The house where you and your sister were born.

A cabin

Made of logs from the World’s Fair.

You were sitting alone in a plastic deck chair.

You wore a white linen dress

And a large cotton bandage on your right cheek.

My face was numb

And my heart beat furious.

We hugged and you showed me.

Long thin marks and black stitching

Shined up with Vaseline. You told me

I was a liar when I said you were beautiful.

We ate a quiet dinner with your family.

They would not look you in the eye.

I was making up the pull out couch

In the guest room after everyone went to bed.

I sat in the lamplight and began to weep.

I had not cried in years

And my chest was heaving.

I looked up to see you in the doorway.

I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands

And tried to be a man.

You came to me and I hugged your waist.

I wanted to be your shield.

You wanted to make love

And feel something that was not so sad.

You stared at me throughout and I wanted you to believe

That I had not been a liar on the lawn.

Abortion Clinic

The ceiling came down

at 3 am again, and I don’t have the time

to do the kinds of drugs I want to,

and I don’t have you to go home to

to talk to fuck to sleep

because I’m already home and you’re in yours,

It’s smaller now than it was before, mine,

and the animals no longer recognize me.

The smell is different everyday inside

and they shit on the floor

I told my boss I’d come in early

but I hate it there too -- get going

to get away, and end where I left anyway.

So fuck it. This is for you ghost reader:

time to jerk off

and hit the hay.

Once during day and now alone in morning

on the deck

i watch the clouds

and try to understand them

they are low

and moving quickly above the trees

I see branches

snaking the grey sky

in the clouds before dawn

like synapses

or arms of galaxies

the clouds roil,

their texture gives and takes

moving east

I see an eye and face

as in childhood

when we all looked

for shapes in the clouds