like a lecture on the history of ego at the saddest school.
Falling from airplanes, he pretended to fly,
insulted when I didn't catch him.
Falling from rooftops, I pretended I was rock,
furious that I missed him.
Cuddled up in black fatigues,
jaunty beret tilted to catch the solar joy,
he loaded his rubber guns, his parachute, his poetry
into his beetley, duct-taped Civic,
rode through the forest of civilization.
Never once did I hear him sing.
His stories were numbered, rollodexed into his spine,
drop a shot of vodka in the liquid jukebox.
Finally the glass was less than half empty
and mine was full,
and he still calls, insulted
that I wasn't there to break
his last, best fall.