For K. Ward I don’t know anything, just Hyattsville’s a DC suburb, With more than twenty thousand. And your campaign website’s still up, And it’s very calm and no frills, Sensible yet empathetic. You were forty-four, which, As I draw closer to that number, I realize is a weird one, When a person’s still full of youth, But it’s eclipsed by society’s demands, And the salt flecks in the pepper. (And I read you were a grandfather.) And forgive me if this next part Sounds in any way presumptuous, But as someone teeming with multitudes myself, I think I recognize That maybe you were Not easily pigeonholed in several ways, Which tends to make certain people less than thrilled. And it’s not easy for me, So I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you, But times a gazillion. And you took on more responsibility than you had to, Presumably to improve a life or two, Which I’ve always felt was some combination Of noble and insane. The last stop was a park, Which strikes me as both Public and removed - Like the lone sensitive Intellectual in a crowded room - And that’s pretty much all I can Reasonably say about you, I hope you wouldn’t mind, Just felt like I had to.

In A Comment Thread on YouTube underneath the Album "A Crow Looked at Me" There was someone who four years ago Claimed to be a teenager With terminal cancer, And they said the album made them Feel cold and awake. And it made sense to me, ‘cos Sometimes it seems like Only those of us who aren’t dying Do that hand-wringing thing, If only because We feel that we have to - Meanwhile the one who is dying Has a different way of seeing. But I started crying - Not because of the album Which I’ve heard several times And use as a handbook at this point - But because this stranger who was Supposedly dying Said something that was very Relatable to me (i.e., Now I care Because of the thing they said) And now there is a void left By the fact that they didn’t Comment again. And I’m guilty because I laughed Through my tears at somebody who Typed at the silence: “Dude r u dead?” And someone else also confessed to Laughing at that, and people scolded them And this is actually One thing I like about people - This uncomfortable dance we all Have to negotiate Because of the absurdity Of being alive. Sometimes my favorite Story of Phil’s Is the fact that he toured This death album with Misty and Mering And repeated the unspeakable Over and over To festival crowds, And then went back to jumping On beds like a kid Because what else could he do? (It’s what I would do.) I remember that while people Like to idealize a relationship Cut short by death, It’s final days aren’t always what they envision - People are not always themselves. Maybe they turn to a god they never believed in, Maybe they retreat Into the childlike and overly optimistic, As if senile, Their punk intellect turned simple and smiling. Maybe they start to comport themselves strangely Because it doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe they spend more time With the internet than the families They’re leaving behind. And though it’s most likely That teenager who commented is now gone, It’s also possible they weren’t Who they claimed to be, Or maybe they just kicked the cancer And pissed right off of YouTube, And I’ll say it again: I really know nothing And whatever I’d last expect Is probably what it is.