Anonymous
Tommy
He wills not Steppenwolf
the Second, the first which melted
left against the furnace one winter,
warped and foiled in psychedelic
splendor; his slow flux of anger cooled
in a genesis of rocket, man, awe,
later to be staunched amid excelsior
and shiny strips of tinseled skullduggery.
He wills not Pretzel Logic
though twisted in his torment;
a half-hearted dude drawn curb-side
in search of rusted craftsmen still
covered under lifetime warranty, his
peccadilloes peaked in a fit of apoplexy
by forty, his pick-up gone & went,
impounded in some lot east of Olentangy.
He wills not Seventh Sojourn,
even should we find ourselves together
for his sake up on that pleasant hill
in autumn; even should we gather
on a dreary Tuesday afternoon –his
moods were always shaded more toward
brown than blue, his nights mostly
coarse muslin stained with Grand Marnier.
He wills not.
Anima eius et animæ omnium Requiescat in Pace
For my brother
with love,
Meri