Of Greyhound buses and cigarettes,
Whiskey and champagne.
Belongs to the fringes of society,
If anything.
Polemics as a past-time and books as a spell,
Loved nothing more than to rebel.
Never sober yet always clean,
Short and thin, eyes of evergreen.
Argument and sacrilege,
Living life on the edge.
You say you hate him and his disregard for ethics,
He doesn’t care. Yet he makes a lasting impression.
He won’t jump through hoops if you tell him to, but he will sit and watch others jump through hoops with you.
It is only now I realize he gave it his all.
It is only now I realize he was sincere,
However vain and bafoonishly depraved he may have been.
They say he experienced all the seasons of life.
When I saw him last, he was calm in his casket.
He looked like all possibilities–and roads, both taken and passed–at once.
