04/2009

First post on Gift Horses

My ex lover died yesterday morning. He simply didn't wake up from a Burrough's dream, just like that, his ticking slowed and stopped. When we first met in high school I was working at a subway sandwich shop on Chapman Hwy (my first job as an "artist" lol). Every night he'd come sit with me while I closed up and counted down; sketching in our little black books, telling jokes and stating insecurities, our family anecdotes falling like crusty stalamite tears in full teenage disclosure. I fell in love with him when he drew this gelastic penis and vagina waving to each other, goofy big head and lashed eyes wide, and then later twister, and morning with the light still on. He lived with me at my mum's, then we shared our first real home on Laurel Ave. apt 2. We were hortoculturists, and had dogs in the manner of children. There weren't too many roaches. Both Piscean. He was born on Feb. 29th, 1980, and missed having a real birthday 3 of 4 years. Not bad days. Wonderful mesh. He believed in a twisted Catholic truth of the nuclear family, much like my father, and was bloody during the break-up from self-inflicted melodrama. His eyes were gray like his last name, and he drank in earnest torture. He would call me and recite Bukowski poetry with a crackling tone. We were 19 and 20.

He forgave me eventually, and an understanding was reached. He was my book guru, and always available to talk me through a panic. He burned Peanut Butter Wolf and Hank Williams cds, then folded them into hand-drawn envelopes. We got high together sometimes, and he would tell me how proud he was of me for going to school, for being "type a", for pushing and getting it done, for moving away, for making it out. Sometimes he would be crude and insulting, a Jekyll/Hyde snide and sly. But, I took his advice saltily if not affectionately, trusting his sharp criticisms. He loved trains, paid attention to details, schooled me to move among clanking beasts, and drew letters for me to copy. He was the most sarcastic fucker I have ever known. When I heard the news I sat down and my heart beat a rabbit drum, snatched breaths, and I was pissed.

I saw him in person last summer, all humid TN June filtered lemon light in my memory. I wore a polka dot dress to have him retouch my tattoo. He was pleased, flattered that I'd dress nicely to have him work on me. We had always shared a sense of decorum so he lifted his hat and gave me a little bow across the dusty parking lot. He told me my shoulder blades were sticking out as the gun buzzed across the points of bone, and delicately wiped the seeping ink away. We went to Strawberry Plains quarry, pushed through water thick with alge, and saw a coyote. We talked about ornamental plants and line qualities, Chinue Achebe and Amy Hempel books. After I left to come out west he moved to Virgina, Boston, then back to Knoxville in my father's abandoned airstream trailer. His dog ran away, he called me crying on ecstacy while driving too fast on Henley St. His self destruction shimmered all around. He told me he'd always love me, that we were family. He died of an overdose yesterday morning. May he rest in peace.