Drawing tears up through the nave
of the body like a floorplan, conquest.
Killing is one form of our wandering sorrow
in our wolf-lonely temple.
So darkness was seen spreading
and no mass could’ve stopped it
but still we thought to wave our arms
like we just didn’t care in distraction
and so every short breath
of denial was assisted
by a swift punch under the sternum
and still having never split the skin-suit
many calmly weighed statements
issued forth and entered Death’s canon.
Jack Avani spends an immense amount of time listening to music, drinking beer, reading—such that he could only demurely shrink away from the accusation of being a bohemian (does such a thing exist in the parlance of our times?) when the label was playfully lobbed by two dear friends in a drawn-out goodbye, after a ceremonious, typical conversation about the merits—and overall pleasure of rising to the challenge of defending—Kanye West’s artistry, the frustration of properly explaining why he is worth accepting as our lord and savior of hip hop (please forgive the irony thinly veiling sincerity), the silliness of the conversation sort of tapering awkwardly, perhaps because of the dialectical hangover of discussing the nature of intelligence, consciousness, quantum phenomena, the night previous, and now the realization that we had to really say goodbye, for a long time this time.