#lkbs

oh Peter James. oh platonic friend.

lover of Husserl and Nic Cage

you connoisseur of all things Tarantino

amongst ourselves we did terrible Kennedy impressions

and talked about mid-eighties synth as though

there were a textbook and we had both read it cover

to cover with our souls instead of our eyes

you were the wryest. you said things like

“I wish Jeff Lynn was my dad”

we met for the very first time talking of burmese monks

but the time we learned each others names

the time it counted was scored by Chicago's

masterpiece 'twenty-five or six to four'

often it was your easy-going appreciation of

backwoods life that lead to saying lots of

“a little dogging the bone – nothing wrong with that”

we shared beds out of necessity, in our homes

in our apartments once i think in a hayloft

we woke up still drunk and sang and burnt eggs in the kitchen

small town coffee shops nickels and dimes

traded into packets of cigarettes-- you do owe me a coke

I cut your hair and you gave me dating advise

we called out dirty conservatives as we saw fit

we woke up still drunk and sang and burnt eggs in the kitchen

we despaired and we got right back in there

we kept it real, we swung for the fences