PS: SP CE & NebLib

In Lincoln I slept on the deepest couch, 2010. Jeff tore limbs from trees and positioned them in mailboxes. They were gone in the morning when we marveled at the spectral sign of the League for Human Dignity and did wheatgrass shots to prepare for our reading at sp ce, but it was OK, because Jeff was soon to be wed, and there was a lot of public sculpture/spaghetti house around. We called it circling the drain, and the clouds affirmed. See the palatial phallus where JD once lived? Wanna Vietnamese sandwich? So Kyle took me to the kind of house show I saw every weekend in Olympia and haven’t seen since, and when the police came we were unafraid because have you seen Kyle’s beard? He traded me shirts and told me I should’ve been taller. I tore shingles from the roof and reassured the comedian I had once been a roofer, so it was cool. Then it was Hitler’s intended capital. Then we offended another comedian who’d saved up his heckle retorts, and Paul had to get back to some pizzas. I met Carlin! Jeff’s best heckle was “boo,” and Kyle showed me a stage that could’ve been for peacocks in powdered wigs infiltrating the Gatorade-shaded park, and the mosquitoes weren’t bad. I read poems in this sp ce seen below [videos of readings], ate things in burritos, really loved meeting all these people making a sp ce amazingly and with more rough verve than most who speak of “community arts” typically understand, adored Justin’s hoodie, tried to help a spare change guy from the corner where dudes were messin’ him and got talked to by an undercover community op cop. The jokes I’d make here to please Jeff wouldn’t please anyone else (before I said it, he understood “spare change” as a “sp(are) c(hang)e” “joke”…). I have spent years making them, and now there is a sadness in it Jeff you will understand I am trying to capture the spirit of our lives together but in a lexicon two or three others might also sled toward? Jeff and I lived together in deep Massachusetts with a weight bench and two hundred books of puns and once made enchiladas three nights in a row with increasingly better ingredients. Last night my actual wife and I made ‘chiladas with seiten we (she) made at home and wetting our hands in some sauce spoke of Jeff Downey, and of Lincoln, Nebraska, and of the photographs of Jeff Downey, father famous for vistas and you eat the snake you kill, of which this last week’s Lincoln poets also to me now in their brilliance seem. Because we didn’t have Jeff we were short two tortillas to fill out the pan, and the latent sauce reminded us of the absence of not least his strong eye but his two tree-ruddy hands. Oh, but in Chicago this month there was Kyle and Paul! A common friend called Kyle “that soft-eyed poet.” Who is anybody right now I don’t miss. Invite us back to anywhere though not a moment too soon. ZS


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