re-reading some of Fante’s
The Wine of Youth
in bed
this mid-afternoon
my big cat
BEAKER
asleep beside
me.

the writing of some
men
is like a vast bridge
that carries you
over
the many things
that claw and tear.

Fante’s pure and magic
emotions
hang on the simple
clean
line.

that this man died
one of the slowest and
most horrible deaths
that I ever witnessed or
heard
about…

the gods play no
favorites.

I put the book down 
beside me.

book on one side,
cat on the
other…

John, meeting you, even the way it
was was the event of my
life. I can’t say
I would have died for
you, I couldn’t have handled
it that well.

but it was good to see you
again
this
afternoon.