Burning Books with Jack
on Trickster Ridge

When he threw Amor Fati
into flames, friends and poets gasped.

White book! Heads shook.

I ran to find mine bubble wrapped
in briefcase, amateur sky
with all the colors in it.

ah jumped in after Jack like a sigh,
after Danny’s hurled script, wanting nothing
more than for words to say nothing,

burn, be nothing with his.
Daiva turned his glowing pages with a stick.

We acolytes of Jack-spent light!

Unreadable ash
made of us and especially
Jack gibbering joy-scat

to the earless moon, hands
grasping at the halo like a drowning man,
fingers coming up empty and fool.

This is a revision of the poem I posted on Feb. 20, 2017, in loving memory of Jack Mueller who died yesterday on April 27, 2017. He lives on and on in the Word.

One Response to “Burning Books with Jack
on Trickster Ridge”

  1. eduardo says:

    I didn’t know Jack that well, but I knew him well enough that I’ll miss his place in the scheme of things in the world. I have my own copy of Amor Fati, wondrously inscribed and “arted,” by him, when he was guest poet at Talking Gourds, April ’14. Further, he was part of the herd of poets who gathered around me for a couple of group photos. (Kyle Harvey, Art Goodtimes, Rosemerry, [moi,] Jack, and Danny. What an incredibly wonderful night that was, and in no small amount whatsoever because of Jack.

    And as these things happen, I was at the last TG, April 25th, where Danny and others read and/or recited Jack’s poetry. (And it was during my return home that Jack passed over.) I’m looking forward to, and looking out for, his next manifestation.

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