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
brothers in arms, we fought the good fight against college
