
20 years ago, on January 22, 1996, my friend, David Joseph Wilcox, died from AIDS.
The last time I saw him was December 12, 1995. I wrote this on my return trip home on the F train back to Brooklyn from the East Village.

I didn't get to listen to it when it aired at 7:50am this morning. I thought it might be off-topic for the blog. But since most of my part of the aired conversation is about the garden, I figure it it's not much of a stretch. Please give it a listen, and let me know what you think in the comments below.

Poems, like birds, are everywhere; it’s just a matter of training ourselves to recognize them — a metaphor here, an alliterative passage there, and something lovely dark and deep lurking just beyond. And with a little bit of editing, the English language naturally resolves into a rough iambic pentameter…
Each line in the “found poem” below is a link to the post I lifted it from. I’ve altered nothing but the punctuation, and I’ve included an audio version for those who may have trouble hearing the poetry at first.It was hard to recognize my own words in this context:
Who knows how they knew they were there.Out of its original context, it reads more like a Zen koan than a sentence from a blog post. I don't want to spoil the accidental poetry of that line by explaining it.