For John Haag, That Bastard
For the teacher that taught me:
I saw you as the finest teacher that ever was,
for years,
And then you died.
Quiet. Stealthy. SNEAKY.
Fuck you, John.
You will NOT get a weak voice now praising you,
of mealy-mouthed Balaban whatsit.
You will NOT go quiet into that dark night.
HELL.
Mushroom-lover!
Raise some noise.
Yes, you, the damned. You have a prince among you; straighten up, for Lucifer's sake!
(Mushrooms don't even come an ace within apples, do they, J?)
(That's speculation, but I suspect you loved apples a mite more, John. Mushrooms were hunting, but apples were tending. All the public buttering and cidering were a clue.)
HEY.
Dead, decomposing motherfucker: I will find your grave.
I will.
I WILL, I'm a crazy sonofabitch, too. Just like you.
I'll spill some whiskey (would you prefer bourbon? scotch?) on the dirt and remember you.
MEMORY...
Smell: Woodsmoke.
Sight: Skinny Mark Twain-looking motherfucker.
Sound: Richest voice I ever heard, wrapping around syllables until they were just right.
Touch: Hard, papery, but still solid.
Taste: All I have is apple butter and mushrooms, and for me, that's how John tasted.
You are dead, best teacher.
Your words live on.
Your heart... I think none here has that power.... but we have your example.
. . .
I hope there's an afterlife, so I can beat your pants off in poker.
Rest easy, mentor mine. Rest easy.
I saw you as the finest teacher that ever was,
for years,
And then you died.
Quiet. Stealthy. SNEAKY.
Fuck you, John.
You will NOT get a weak voice now praising you,
of mealy-mouthed Balaban whatsit.
You will NOT go quiet into that dark night.
HELL.
Mushroom-lover!
Raise some noise.
Yes, you, the damned. You have a prince among you; straighten up, for Lucifer's sake!
(Mushrooms don't even come an ace within apples, do they, J?)
(That's speculation, but I suspect you loved apples a mite more, John. Mushrooms were hunting, but apples were tending. All the public buttering and cidering were a clue.)
HEY.
Dead, decomposing motherfucker: I will find your grave.
I will.
I WILL, I'm a crazy sonofabitch, too. Just like you.
I'll spill some whiskey (would you prefer bourbon? scotch?) on the dirt and remember you.
MEMORY...
Smell: Woodsmoke.
Sight: Skinny Mark Twain-looking motherfucker.
Sound: Richest voice I ever heard, wrapping around syllables until they were just right.
Touch: Hard, papery, but still solid.
Taste: All I have is apple butter and mushrooms, and for me, that's how John tasted.
You are dead, best teacher.
Your words live on.
Your heart... I think none here has that power.... but we have your example.
. . .
I hope there's an afterlife, so I can beat your pants off in poker.
Rest easy, mentor mine. Rest easy.