Storm for the Living and the Dead

Welcome back, Hank.
Nice to see you again, Buk.
They dug through your bones
Found poems, some
Uncollected
Others,
Unpublished.
Propped them up along with
Your doodles, which
To be honest...
Aren't that great but
I still like you, Buk.
You still got the chops, man.
The magic is still there
In some of these poems.
Some still sparkle, like jewels
In the morning sunlight
After a night of debauchery
And inebriated romance.
Others,
Well... let's just say
Reading this collection
Of your poems
Is like looking at Polaroid photos
Of anyone's life.
They show–scattershot,
How the work can be inconsistent
Over a long period of time.
Though not as glorious as
Your other collections,
Like
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills
Or
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame
It was still nice to hear your voice
Again.
Like a fog horn
Blowing in the night.
Your glorious literary voice is still
M O N U M E N T A L!
I loved seeing the
Photocopies of poems
Letters on the page like
Bullet holes through a paper target.
Nice shot, man!
You were a sharpshooter, Buk.
Don't worry. I got your back. But,
Please, if you could,
Send a memo. Shoot a fax.
To whoever is in charge of
Your legacy.
There is nothing left to prove.
I still like you, Buk.
You were a sharpshooter, man.
Got any beer?
No?!
Sorry to hear that.