FOR JIMMY

if it's true that you died 
which it might be, because you don't sell sunflowers by the road anymore, 
then maybe there really is such a thing as loss 
maybe it isn't one of those words with a hole in it 
a word that represents something that isn't really there 
like a memory does 

i don't believe in time 
(i’ve been saying this) 
but i believe tendrils of light drift in the air 
and those are thoughts, and they settle on our cheeks,
and when they collect there, a bright pool spreads, like we are blushing 
and the color of that blush is a brownish pink, and our eyes are green, 
and there is a sanctuary, and we are safe there, and there are no windows, 
but if there were, they would be glowing, 
and in that sanctuary tendrils braid upward and reach to the sky 
while we sit inside, talking to a middle-aged man at the mechanic's 
about electronic music, and dancing, and how ben stiller is an asshole in person 
but owen wilson is very nice, there's kindness in his eyes and he treats with integrity 
the people who didn't get as lucky as he did 
and the man recommends six books, which are 
the tao te ching, the way of a pilgrim, the bhagavad-gita, the tibetan book of the dead, the essential kabbalah, and the essential rumi 
and we nod and we look 
and the mechanic fixes our car, with tools  
and we sit in chairs with four legs that stand nobly upright, a total of eight

when i go to the place near the ocean 
i can count the statuettes, but don't
and i can look for you, but you are in an unfindable place  
some things ask not to be touched, but to be looked at, thru a telescope,
that one can adjust, with a knowing that comes thru refinement 
refinement can come thru a portal 
refinement can come in a house or a bed 
refinement is there in a statue 
and one can make of oneself a statue in evening
one can make of oneself the color green, like you did 
green light on pavement 
green light in the rain 
green light talking in darkness 
darkness talking back in the rain 
that you ran through, running on a zigzag path 
thru the movie of air that you star in 
thru the collection of languages that move on the street 
thru the wind that blows thru your handwriting 
til the sun is born and sits on your lap 
and a siren rings out, the sound of humility 

essences must not stay in their boxes 
you knew this 
you always handed the correct object to me 
the object that made it all fit together 
and made the world feel as vast and as clear as an echo 

this will be the only time i read this poem 
a special gift vanishes, a candle burns down to the quick
matter disperses 
but what is within - that is something else 

This poem was read at Club Wonder on 1 May 2022. An edited version appears in Grand Journal Issue 5.

Dedicated to James Brandt (1964-2018).