Paul Monette

I thought of him today because he scripted an episode of Friday the 13th: The Series back in 1988 or 89 and it was on t.v. this afternoon.

It was (like most of the episodes of that series) either goofily bad or goofily pleasant, depending on your mood. Mine was sour so I didn't watch this tale of a cursed pirate treasure salvaged from Davy Jones' locker.

I remember reading his novel Afterlife as a young man and being so frustrated and angry at the hopelessness of it, but it was actually just mirroring the hopelessness of AIDS at that moment.

I remember not being the best or most generous reader of all his poems.

I had undergone one of those all-too-common conversion experiences with regard to poetic form and was (momentarily anyway) forging an immunity against rawer emotions or confessionalism in poetry; in other words, I was successfully regressing to mirror the tenor of the times.

I remember liking his autobiography much more, and liking his spirit as it was presented there.

And I remember regretting his fate deeply, and admiring his enviable courage.

I was seeing what was on YouTube and found him in Italian.

I was happy to see it was an elegy to his love.

I am older now and am no longer embarrassed by the horrible grandeur of loss.

And nobody is ever immune.



here's more...

No Goodbyes

from Love Alone: 18 Elegies For Rog

for hours at the end I kissed your temple stroked
your hair and sniffed it it smelled so clean we'd
washed it Saturday night when the fever broke
as if there was always the perfect thing to do
to be alive for years I'd breathe your hair
when I came to bed late it was such pure you
why I nuzzle your brush every morning because
you're in there just like the dog the night
we unpacked the hospital bag and he skipped
and whimpered when Dad put on the red
sweater Cover my bald spot will you
you'd say and tilt your head like a parrot
so I could fix you up always always
till this one night when I was reduced to
I love you little friend here I am my
sweetest pea over and over spending all our
endearments like stray coins at a border
but wouldn't cry then no choked it because
they all said hearing was the last to go
the ear is like a wolf's till the very end
straining to hear a whole forest and I
wanted you loping off whatever you could
still dream to the sound of me at 3 P.M.
you were stable still our favorite word
at 4 you took the turn WAIT WAIT I AM
THE SENTRY HERE nothing passes as long as
I'm where I am we go on death is
a lonely hole two can leap it or else
or else there is nothing this man is mine
he's an ancient Greek like me I do
all the negotiating while he does battle
we are war and peace in a single bed
we wear the same size shirt it can't it can't
be yet not this just let me brush his hair
it's only Tuesday there's chicken in the fridge
from Sunday night he ate he slept oh why
don't all these kisses rouse you I won't won't
say it all I will say is goodnight patting
a few last strands in place you're covered now
my darling one last graze in the meadow
of you and please let your final dream be
a man not quite your size losing the whole
world but still here combing combing
singing your secret names till the night's gone