A Eulogy From Demolition Experts Who Call Their Craft “Making Sky” Which Winter-I Call Life

A week after the letter L’s suicide, I sweat and shiver in this fever, sinking into that white room with white walls, I sink into what madness fears: There I was

Cool and laughing with a long-neck I fear to drink, and I offer libation to the wind, “This is my last night for you, the last night of your wake, this long-neck for the frozen grief you brought that this breaks, you will not take me with you, you bastard, so here’s to your flying to peace.”

I drink until I’m blind, babbling gibberish, almost thinking of letting myself fall from four flights

END IT

JOIN THE HANGING L

YOU WANT TO

Except for the hands that hold me the swaying-I then descending

The same hands to which my hands flutter after, “…Stop…Stop…Stop…”

And the moving swaying stops, I pull and push open the car door----

Heaving “I’m sorry”

Sobbing “Goddamn the only way to release the grief”

Vomiting “Damn it, get out of me”

Crying “Let me grieve…Let me grieve… Let me grieve…”

The next day I wake up, half-dead in a fever of exhaustion and grief

(Brother takes care of exhausted me, un)

Knowing today L is buried

IN HELL

The hands say, “I love you. It’s okay to grieve.”

And so I sink, I sink, sinking into these white walls, white bed, and the faceless man in white with that metallic voice that had first appeared nine years ago-----------------------WAITING -----------------------------------------------------------------------------YOU’VE COME

I say, “Hello, Dr. Stronzo.”-------------------------------------------------DECONSTRUCT

I rattle off :