Just forty-five years ago today my best friend's body was found hanging from a wooden beam in the family barn.
Paul was an innovative artist who, at eighteen years of age, began a journey along a road to his own Damascus. I can still recall the images he created with his masterful understanding of chiaroscuro; images that he destroyed on his last day.
By that time his increasingly exclusive diet of speed pills had transformed his self-perceived identity to be that of the real and fully evolved John Lennon.
advent light . . .
a pendulum of shadows
creaks through me