Death Anniversary: Eric

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.



Rising action, rising tensions
into whirls of metallic drums
drumming out of sync,
stamped out into a moment of fighting
pink tings, pink up. Why,

mesmerized under blends
we can’t find the strings to tune
the right way, strings when
rubbed against
makes friction sound soft
and drawn out humidity

like some memory of you, samba
beneath low-hung moon–Not
a sun-worshipper, worship
drinking spending every catch like
a catch requiring release:
regulations for regulation,
everything we are

when the time comes, dangerous sun light
delicate sun rise
we will take you for a loop
on a loop, flower petals
unfolding over
pink petal.

Power Struggle

Try to take terror by her bizarre fingers,
her helping hands now being burned. No shining
shrubs here, not sweet-tea

gales to throw my pages to,
I throw them away like weak
ankles, weakest loop in the Shasta
chain when no one can

no longer pretend we are sane, resting
on the tracks of authority–Everything changes
when the last-call neon

flashes on: the miniature, immense, cracked, hostile,
the static witching hours wanting for flight
under unchained moon, void and voice.




To dream, the embattled dreamers
all dreaming not a separate
force, not a separate energy, intangible sum
just tangling us all,

no crime, or the best crime.
Perfect crime of containing;
a brief moment to see in penumbra
seeing red, white
and blue and every shade in between
mashed into purple jelly and lime, yes,
every other color.

Not a dimension of good versus evil,
we are not bad, we are not our dreams
unless we choose to be,
not even lutefisk aphrodisiacs under dusk,
the mountains digging deeper
into soot and loam, not even the pines of vanilla,
rays beating against wings
taking off across the foothills,

not even they are real unless
we agree and act as they are…

Beeson Blues Pt. 2

Day one, a crow caws to me, waking me from a fleet of sleeping seconds in the early sun. The crows are always near, no matter what the hour, and here they are again to wake me into awful dawn light. I rise from an armchair in my room, shut the window against the moans of early day, shut the curtains to the same. As I float into bed, a cold solitary bed, I listen for hours to the sounds of the outside and do not sleep.

Melancholia, some drowning in black bile, is what it is deemed, the incessant need to stay in a blanking room, only travel out to help with feeding. The pipeline guides the way, the hot hiss I hear every night walking across the cobbled street. My boy now spending each night with my mother, but not an anchor enough. She has been away for years, out of the loop, out of the ways of knowing how to properly bathe a child, let alone feed one daily. I bring what she does not have; the bowls and jars and napkins to the little white chamber, the light blinking for me.

He has always been a fragile infant, but calm, calm like a summer breeze shifting the growing corn stalks, something refreshing. And even now in the damp, quiet air he is calm during his meal, eyes blissfully closed. I wipe his tiny mouth with no fuss. I take him to the basin to wash, careful of his drooping daisy arms, so soft and white. The job is meticulous, of course, but what more do I need time for? Time is an eclipse on our bodies. On my son’s. So, I take my spell slowly. I spend my paper time on this nature of growing, the longevity of roots taking in foundation, the soft stretching of white stem into white receptacle into white petal. The nature of wiping clean, seeing his soft shine once more. “Maybe mommy will want to see you again,” I whisper to his soft ear. “Soon, it will be soon.”



Day two, the crow does not caw me awake, I am already stirring.

After I bathed and bundled my boy, the winds howled so hard through the darkness, his cries carried through with wind, driving me almost mad. I was hence forbidden to leave the house again during night by my wife, who has taken to hunting the entrance corridors, winding back and forth between doors tirelessly as a shark wandering waters for prey. All night she stayed wakeful as me.

I am however aroused out of my room by a bang against the front door followed by a short “Eeeeeeeech!” from my wife. As I run to see what is waiting at the entrance, my wife has fallen by the door, surely fainted from fright. A sad body weakness my boy inherited from her. I pull her to the chase nearby and pull open the door to find today’s paper, The Niles Star – October 6th, 1870, but the headline is foreign and unreadable. I toss it into the umbrella stand near-by, as good as any waste basket.

I set my wife in her room and leave for town to gather pots and dirt and flowers. I plant them around the white chamber for my son to smell and gaze upon all day: Cornflowers and Allium and Lenten Roses and Black-eyed Susans.

When dusk begins to fall, my wife is still resting and I am called by the hissing to the daily care. I gather the bowls and jars and napkins. I sing along the path, in harmony with the hiss of gas into the cooling night. I feed my son his meal. I wipe his tiny mouth with no fussing. I take him to the basin to wash, careful of his graying daisy arms, tenderer than before.

Beeson Blues Pt. 1

The crows, never falling, still they sit, still they sit on the sugar-maple branches just above my window. Watching, waiting for an instant they know is near—his breathing eyes are falling shallow. The spot over him, shining into his tiny pores, his brown eyes like me, his father, it shines into a face fighting for light every day.

Young Son of Beeson Fortune Debilitated, all the headlines read week after week, and I cannot take it much longer. Every limestone brick of this mansion, freshly laid for him, just months ago the news stories touted Carbide Pipeline to Light the Way for Beeson Family, an eternal flame I desire for him. An eternal flame I must have known was needed for him. We had the pipeline built into the house, as the drafts in Niles are deadly. We knew we had to run a line when we had to call a doctor in for our newborn light. A draft blew the window open, blew out his candle, and he stopped breathing for minutes. Death of fright is nothing to be joked about. And it was cheaper at the time to run the pipeline through the house and the cemetery, to the crypt where my sweet mother is buried. A light shining always for her, and new light shining for my boy.

But now his tiny pores are closing under the watchful eyes of the fields outside his window. “Leave me be!” My wife, too heartbroken to leave her own forested room, she knows it’s time too, leaves the watching to the crows. Glass eyes set to judge life, set to look in from the shadows of our trees, feel our spirits as they lift from bodies. They sit, the crows, never falling into flight, never falling out or down, the crows only lift away when my boy lifts away into the night.


Melancholia is what they deem it, they incessant need to stay inside, only travel out to help with the feeding. I know I should stop, but the pipeline guides the way, the hot hiss I hear every night walking across the street. My boy now spending each night with my mother, but not an anchor enough. She has been away for years, out of the loop, out of the ways of knowing how to properly bathe a child, let alone feed one daily. I bring the bowls and jars and napkins to the little white chamber, the light already on for me.

The Bend

all the days,

learning new powers
to sway
to bend strong palms,

a curve of my own inventing–
mountain, forest breeze


to sweep all Four Winds
into frenzied shape, frenzied energies
like curls growing too quickly,


too tight, dreads on

A new wind to maintain
and unable to turn away, turn in to

face to invisible face,
a song waiting to grasp,
orange thread to keep tugging along.