lightless floored down here on blood red cement looking way up at the blessed shelf where he was only sitting pretty once upon a sweet cliché——no it was not cliché, those were the real days, before She broke & fell away and the time of exile came like clay reshaped into an ashtray filled with ash & butts & days & days of daze & crazy waves of remembrance…exile always comes guns blazing trail in a silent film providing only mote & emptiness that’s seen by the saddened brunt of the cheeky gone weakened ones not nearly even fractions o the light that shines up there on the shelf because, well, it’s just way too foul a smell for in-the-now-spirit to consort or befriend or to even dare consent with…for one to have & hold a notion of that awe impassioned ocean of Love that grows (& holds its own thru this & that & every other known affluent grief to bring it down or to its knees) but only close enough to brush with some fleeting warm resemblance of it to want it, grow it, know it & toast it…then to feel it pass too swiftly from one’s arms & saline eyes that what remains is self-sustaining sense of pride & purpose, service or gains…only to see (& maybe even feel some profound kindred sense of) the shock & awe of someone who was once if only for a mere lifetime a window into eloquence not of any special talent but of Love expressed in earnest while he learned it well and taught it too as only one who knew such hues of two as one as two in rhapsody imbued collaboration fantasy gone reality & family…only then to see it all torn from the sons & he who’s always stayed the course no matter how the world resolved its petty differences——yeah sure, like anybody with a conscience he was sometimes warn and conflicted by all the ways & means of existence, but the real truth was the connection of his own heart to hers like resurrection——we're all flawed & unperfected, with respects for the best laid intentions...that was until she fell away and he dropped hard from the rosy mantelpiece onto this concrete floor so low now looking up at what was then in pictures there and knowing it was all too private in its meaningful intent and expression of devotions-hope for the big-league-avant-garde and contemporary fair-weather shaman to sustain productive interest any longer——taking a wide berth from the puddle there reflecting only yesterday’s meaning into the new day’s constant misinterpretation of the smile (or the frown) he’s wearing on a face that once was often known for unabashedly sharing light