In memory of Alexandr Mironenko

Your t's were never crossed
         with anything
         other than what Spirit grants so freely
         to those who resist a win
         in favour of sheer space,
         and evidence to it. Abundantly,
         and vehemently,
         they save the terminus of the pursuit
         as a start-up
         for a new one, and miss
         the bliss of ignorantly rejoicing
         in the achievement.
You so played…
         The game is what we make it
         along the lines
         that dots and eyes most commonly
         belie…
Right on a crash-course,
         on twos and fours
         clawing your way through the clay
         of post-mortems, and logs,
         and nicknamed gossip,
         straw compassion, regret, forgiveness,
         all that you were not…
Like a phantom in the wind,
         to rise from sleep, –
         yawn, –
         and back to sleep again.
We are too small to hold you.
The coffin will.

Your v's are small,
         but in the memories
         they double up in size,
         significance
         and impact on us all.
They hold your number,
         any time you call,
         anything...
Unlike the stars,
         and like the moon,
         we shine as a reflection of the real thing,
         mustered and lost on inhibitions…
That can be improved.
        The hilarious
        The delirious
        The atmospheric
        We gather in a hall to see him off.
        The mum.
        The drinking buddy.
        The euphoric senator horse
        to first climb down the up elevators.
Death
        doesn't part the particles,
        it takes you to a place in space and time,
        when
You might remember me,
        if you forget yourself.


2013.