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They called him deadpan man.
He sat in a squeaky cerulean chair by the window
Whispering to the cobwebs, contemplating ideas
Nobody ever took the time to scratch down.

Maybe this is why he killed his own head a week later.

But today I stole a few minutes from my own schedule to visit him
In his sleepless waking. I pulled up an invisible chair
          I'm not sure he noticed,
And allowed my ears to swim in his hollow ideas and
          Surprisingly stable dreamscapes.

With a frail voice, one which could not walk with near the force of a baby,
He breathed such misshapen sentences as
          "The earth is God's basketball"
                    " If tsunamis could embrace"
                              "Why does my failure mirror my face?"

I watched his bony fingers trace across the lonely surface of
A window that had, at one time, learned not to question
The universe on both sides.

I saw the first and last time his fingerprints would exist,
And his breathy voice murmur a single word
          Purge -
Trailing off into the air,
          Evaporating, only more subtle.





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