08-27-2022, 09:50 PM
Johnny met his mark on a disordered bed
celebrating he texted and then he was dead.
Fentanyl paid a visit the coroner said.
Johnny was born in bright sterility
answer to his parents’ touch and go fertility,
a rebellious babe who strutted in the high chair,
a midget Mussolini with downy blonde hair.
Listened to Hendrix and Nirvana at nine,
and was never without a peace sign
hanging around his neck along with a guitar,
sailing away from us to find his own star.
Cancer at sixteen and love without tears
for the mystery of the veiled female,
to Oregon for college, wrote stories and verse,
OCD at twenty and the world turned perverse.
To Spain for three years, in Prado del Rey to teach,
tangled with young thieves, who could not believe
an American boy was not a suitable toy,
collected colored glass off Mediterranean beaches.
Came back because he missed his amigos,
did legal aid for imprisoned migrantes,
welded art out of iron, created stop motion films
built gardens, raised butterflies and bees.
Our days pass on, harsh and serene,
in a predicament in practice obscene,
somewhere Johnny wanders on a cosmic shore
but our memories keep banging at his door.
All we ask of whoever’s in charge of time and space
is a moment’s hesitation in which we can break
through the illusion of death for one final take.
celebrating he texted and then he was dead.
Fentanyl paid a visit the coroner said.
Johnny was born in bright sterility
answer to his parents’ touch and go fertility,
a rebellious babe who strutted in the high chair,
a midget Mussolini with downy blonde hair.
Listened to Hendrix and Nirvana at nine,
and was never without a peace sign
hanging around his neck along with a guitar,
sailing away from us to find his own star.
Cancer at sixteen and love without tears
for the mystery of the veiled female,
to Oregon for college, wrote stories and verse,
OCD at twenty and the world turned perverse.
To Spain for three years, in Prado del Rey to teach,
tangled with young thieves, who could not believe
an American boy was not a suitable toy,
collected colored glass off Mediterranean beaches.
Came back because he missed his amigos,
did legal aid for imprisoned migrantes,
welded art out of iron, created stop motion films
built gardens, raised butterflies and bees.
Our days pass on, harsh and serene,
in a predicament in practice obscene,
somewhere Johnny wanders on a cosmic shore
but our memories keep banging at his door.
All we ask of whoever’s in charge of time and space
is a moment’s hesitation in which we can break
through the illusion of death for one final take.