Sunday, June 15, 2014


oh he was a hard case...

stubborn and a trial to his loved ones

but true to his vision for it...

great (and I mean GREAT) poet

gourmet cook

and a great teacher...ever at his best

in the middle of a circle

guiding the discussion back

to each speaker so they may

gauge the fullest of their contribution

oh...infuriatingly...he has left this sphere

difficult his own demons

and sadly they howl in triumph...but fuck them...

they brought him down

but they didn't kill him nor could they ever destroy the work

he has left for the rest of us

I take the liberty of posting here one of his poems

he is not here any longer...but he is not gone....


I am alone the bottle, my precious glass

Is gone among papers flying circles around me

In the wind, but I am warm against the

Bleachers of the Lemon Street stadium

And not long for this world, not long

For the night that hides my hand from my eye.

This is my corner of the world, my bed

Singing me back to Kentucky and

Horses to tend.

I followed the cry of pain in the night-

A black mare stumbled and broke her foot

Birthing a foal that ran as soon as it stood

And blew the breath of her ghost to the moon

With the shot of a pistol in her head.

That is the song. I sing the bottle dry

Splitting hickory over on Church Street for

Bus fare home in the morning.

This is my last night beneath the stars,


To kindling and soul, and asking why.

RIP Brother....

Content (c) 2008=2014 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.

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