I just spoke at your funeral

could have/should have/would have

(wishes were fishes & beggars would ride)

done better

but when I got to the podium my hands started to

shakeshakeshakeshake in perfect 4/4

with my voice

& my mind

went to static

just like every time I try to think about you

& everything focuses down to a pinhole

like looking at the sun

& all there was

(in that weirdly sanitized room with its

flawless, lifeless, perfumed flowers

that made my stomach clench and bile rise up


& Reverends stories of

shepards and Jackson Pollock

& this happy-ending version of death)

were your sisters,

sobbing & holding each other

& they were so beautiful

& so hurt

& everything was so, so wrong…

you're dead

& we're here

because of you and what you did

& they forgave you,

your sisters

but I don’t

think they have a choice

& that’s when I cried


the cracks of that dam


radiating out from my desperate fingers


& I can’t believe how much I miss you

& I keep having these dreams

about you

& your mother

& I haven’t had dreams like these

since Stevie P. hanged himself

in that Juneau bathroom

& is that because I feel like I/we failed

you like him?

There’s nothing to be done to undo the past

& this linear time line marches on ever forward…

I just wish we could have gone on together longer.

I’m so sorry, Thom & I love you.