Bye Jack
To Michael Erickson
how strange to find an answer
to a note written a month ago, about,
after hell and high water and drought
changed the landscape and the feelings too,
but there was a reminder somewhere
in some back pocket
that I should have another look at you
ah that name
it still sounds so good
despite the disappointments
we'll remember you, for what you
wanted to do
for the 'b's
for the be bop,
and the beatitude
for the ace in the hole
and for the awe of God and nature
in that last innocent moment of darkness
before the sun dragged itself in
with a hangover from the
industrial revolution
and music became a synthetic
variation of genius incarnate
and you did it too;
it wasn't just a dream in your hoary head
you put some jazz in type
who's roar still has not subsided
and wasn't that the American dream
when they re-digested you and sent you
to all the subscribers cross the continent
let's leave it at that, then
with the good memories this time
what difference do the mistakes make
now that we're dead
either way it won't be us they remember
when they pick up the book,
the pages, brittle and yellow with time
and try to decipher the secret of the beat
reminded of your name on an old street sign
