I know you're trying really hard
   to be ok with this.

                            It's fine. You don't
                             have to keep up
                               appearances any longer.

                            I know death is more
                             painful than you thought
                                      it would be.

We all make misjudgements.

        If you were perfect,
             would I have ever
            learned anything from
                                            you?

Fight to the bitter end if
      that's what your instincts are
         telling you. You were always more
       in touch with instincts than I
                                                        was.


    Still searching, but for
          what?
      What secret were you put here
           to reveal that you haven't yet?

      Too large an agenda for such a
             small body.  Some of the
            universe's mysteries will
           stay lost to you as long
                as you remain here on
                           planet Earth.



   This time around    you drink like
        there was no water left on Earth.
                    
                     I guess we both learned
                     to fight against our
                     own self-destruction around
                     the same time.

"Clean yourself up, we gotta go soon,"

You    

                                  are
   a

                dying


          angel


                       .

In my moments of release, my letting go of all
attachment to a definition and a romanticized idea
of having a home... In this eulogy of my
origin, I have never felt so complete. I have never
felt so much like a part of something. I have never
felt so close...to a place...to home. My entire
life exists as a fable in the woods. Those trees
that hold so many secrets own me too. I belong to them.
I am a part.
                      "Do not die yet."
                    Only after your whole heart has
                    healed can you prepare for death.
                    Do not give up your precious time
                    here without attempting
                    for this body to get better
                    in every way. For this body is
                    what we learn from and teach through.

You brought me back from
the brink and now I have to carry you
past it.

An inability to write                                                            ­in great
                                                           ­                                          grief

I just had something to write. I knew you were asleep and I went to get my pen. And I came back to watch you breathe, very creepy and I know it. And I started to get lost in the rhythm of your labor. And I set down the pen. And I sat at the keyboard. And I sat at the Piano, and I set at the keyboard. And I closed my eyes. And I typed up a poem in only 7 notes. It was a chord I had never heard voiced before. And it was beautiful. And I had no idea what to call it. And I tried to play it again. But I couldn't.
                                                     So I let it go.

Earlier today I saw your face through the window. It was a very sad face. And I wanted to go touch it, and force it into smiling. And I walked to you. And I put my hand on your shoulder. And somewhere along the line from my will to yours, I recognized we both wanted that face to smile. But neither of us could force it.
                                                        So we let it go.

Tomorrow I am going to wake up. Hopefully I will see you. I will make another trip to the hospital. And I will come back home. And I will pack my things. And I will leave on a plane to someplace you can't even imagine. And you will watch me go. And I will wave goodbye...again. And you will ask me why...again. And I will still not have an answer. Some twisted root metaphor about tearing' 'em up, and sewin' the seeds, and pastures and the importance of planters will spill from my lips. And you will listen to every word. And you will hold each syllable in your heart. And you will weigh the meaning of each distorted poeticism. And you will stare into my eyes. And I will feel it. The aching pain from when I was born. The longing for you. And I will turn and run as fast as I can. Away.
And you will see that I just cannot understand your love. And you will feel the same aching. And you will have compassion for my suffering.
                                                      ­So you will let me go.

And you will turn.
Return to your home.
Go back to your bed.
Lie down.
And die.


Unsatisfied.


and I'm sorry...

wordless.    You  are.

"Get this **** cancer out of me." you want to scream.
      And I want to do it for you.
"This isn't part of me. I don't hurt inside like you do,"
          you laugh: in the face of death, to hide
                       the fact that you're only hanging on for me.
    And I feel like saying the same to you but...
I laugh along and...
                             we don't speak about it.
                                              Because we're men.
                                                            ­and men don't fear death.
                                                          ­                       we laugh in its face.

                        But also because
                                if we speak these things, they might
                                                           ­            become true.
             and so then,       what are we laughing at
                                                        but the truth.