So two years ago feels like two seconds ago when you lose a life that hasn’t fully lived. I mean, Eric lived his life “to the fullest” in every day he bombastically flew around St. Augustine, or any part of Florida, New York–it didn’t matter where he was. He was ever-present. He is ever-present, even now, an energy among the undeserving. He didn’t deserve to blink out so quickly, he had so much more life to live, accomplishments and light to spread…
I’ve been re-working this piece, and I don’t know if it will ever feel complete, probably not, because life is not complete without you here, man… For Eric Scott Christian, Jr.
Cardinal feather & sage bundle smoking in the sill, ritual to find any answer:
I feel the same, not changing as fast as Midwestern skies: white, bleak, then gray haze & they wonder why so many teens are choosing to medicate & blink out instead of droning through the crossroads of Nowhere – Dirt Road, but is it really so difficult to empathize? & how many more are done with waking to aching sunshine, feeling half of who you are or can be, unable to wash out demands from our throats, shape incantation into action..?
I see them, trying to find the soft grip of moon waning, wanting to spool threads of stars around it, their bluing fingers, their disarticulated bones without air to spiral through lungs, expel. From the fire, can’t make clay; from heartstrings, we find only witnesses with the rough touch of something faint that won’t stay in the catastrophe of the past. & they say if someone leaves it’s best to know why, & I know why you both left, so what am I supposed to do with all the left-over drugs? How am I supposed to leave Death since witnessing her bare & raw, enchanting charm?
Aimless. Down to shores of Ana Island like some wishful fools off to find the Fountain of Youth (11 Magnolia Ave.), feel flood tides crash against crumbling seawalls again and again, crash and crash again. Not getting any better at resistance…
a weekday outside the Magic Beach Motel: stars keep shooting off behind
Eric’s head; pink yellow white, pink yellow tings with tequila
chain-smoke while he tells us about future plans (memorials now)
another sunset down the gutter, how every Floridian’s
night begins, antique muffled voices all born unlucky
with skin (rub salt over the shoulders, repeat daily…)
I imagine littering my feathers behind, the world taking
a long drag
sigh heaving, ocean crash somewhere nearby
A long drag, crash and crash again as I bring shears, tear into memories of chipping seafoam faces: all the days thinking of those bluing eyes, thinking of those waves cross-country, thinking of giving you guys up or joining you, no longer caring about direction or light. In dreamscapes, translucent hands try breaking every expectation the sun will rise again tomorrow, O, so tired of circling the same track of cosmos, every day…
another Thursday, after the psychic reader on Bernard Street
performs her fifth reading flipping Ace of Pentacles
then she walks into the Atlantic, pod of sea weed washing up in her place
more memorials. Mouths stay close but closed off
like stretched badlands along arid shores,
eyes doing more swimming,
learning to see with salt clumped to eyelashes.
— Should I have gone long ago?
Cardinal feather and sage bundle smoking in the sill.