Ode to an Anarchist Poet

An anarchist poet

Who blew up words in leather-bound journals

With fancy fountain pens

Drinking lattes in suburban coffee shops.

He was ever hopeful for a southbound train.

A budding Buddhist

Who tried to meditate against migraines

And spread socialist ideals across internet wires

Strung by the company he worked for.

A dichotomous conundrum he sought to avoid.

A reluctant Dad,

Surrounded by a gaggle of children

who huddled closely to absorb his wisdom, his patience, his grace,

Played dueling banjos, against a backdrop of Sponge Bob.

His signature giggle, a pillar on which the house rested.

A lover, a husband, a friend,

He played a plethora of roles for a handful of avid fans,

Left the building, taking his exit on a bedroom floor.

A heart too kind, too full, to exist in a world

That did not turn its head in awe of such brilliance.

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