Bundles

I love little bundles, medium bags, large sacks … But mostly the mystery of what they could contain

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Robert Richard Kairovicious

Robert Richard Kairovicius
December 01 1955 – November 25 2018

Passed peacefully while in care at the Juravinski Cancer Hospital in Hamilton Ontario.

His original prognosis caused his life expectancy to be limited to LAST December 2017!!!

Yet, with dignity, humor and great determination he surpassed all of the odds and survived all of the treatments. We took it day by day, step, by every new, step.

However on Wednesday November 21 we had an unexpected emergency visit to the hospital, due to complications caused by his feeding tube. Luckily that evening he had stabilized and the complications were being remedied . Thursday he was in good spirits and looked very good. Friday he sounded great, as well as on Saturday. He was sleeping alot but we talked on and off through text and telephone. We thought that he would be home on Monday unless something unexpected occurred.

On Sunday morning, the nurses stated he experienced a sudden shortness of breath, and then peacefully stopped breathing within a few minutes. A very quick passing.

Robert had very firm orders that he did not wish to be resusitated if a need ever arose. So he passed as he wished: without prolonged pain, without being a burden, with his faculties intact and with great dignity.

In 1989 Robert was my first love and first public, and very real, relationship with a man. I am so honored that he chose to spend his last two years sharing the house with Chris May and I. I am so honored and grateful for friends and family who have supported us through this tumultuous time.

What remained constant through all of this, is my renewed belief that there is great beauty in life …. even while death continuously sits as a guest at the same table.

Bizarrely, my beloved Sister, Samm Stocker passed on this day five years ago. So Robert will have great company. Along with Geoffrey Haberman whose celebration of life I will be attending on December 03.

So … with a five fold kiss, I bid Robert adieu this morning and wished him blessings on his continued journey.

Uisce Beah!

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Morning two

Bird calls , solo bird,

Perhaps he has an announcement.

Day two,

yesterday I denied it.

Morning two, it is COOL.

Do I need a jacket?

He asks inside my head.

Later, I will decide, later, ask me later…

The morning glories are talking

Now.

Can I get a new lunch box for school?

You don’t go to school, he says inside my head.

Can’t we pretend I do? I say

out loud ,

to him

inside my bed.

I could feel him smile.

What colour ? He asks.

Purple I squeal .

The dog

lifted his nonexistent brow.

I smile.

Brodie dog

wants an orange one,

he will be coming

too!

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Echoes

Past lives.

So many lived

since this body was born.

Almost half a century of individual pursuits,

each one a life unto itself .

I was a small child living in THAT town.

I was a bigger child living in that town.

I was a lonely young child in that other town.

I was an adolescent faking my way through first experiences in those towns.

In that life I escaped to a city and stated who,

became who I wanted to be.

Said WHO I thought I ….

Might be.

In this life I escaped that city, and this city told me who I am.

In this life I have found THE TRUTH.

In this town, I have found the truth …

Again …. Again, again.

Yet another

truthful life.

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Crunchy chrysalids

The chyrsalids came to mind,

along with the cold

crunching

barking snow.

So cold it whined and squeaked

under my black booted feets.

My testicles receded deep inside,

as my tulips rested

deep below.

My gardens

… in seven weeks,

heads will reach and rise,

break the surface

of the earth

with much surprise .

Calalilies.

Calalilies.

Calalilies?

Did I winter

The calalilies ????

Fuck …. No :(.

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Fathers

Then one day …

you look in the mirror

and state quietly …

“That old man looks alot like my Father.”

You mourn for a few seconds,

and then laugh ….

because

being your Father

is a good

and worthy

accomplishment.

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Pillow

All taking selfies

of our heads on pillows.

Carefully edited,

Sculpted in digital lights.

Perfect presentation,

like after being embalmed,

after the makeup artist has painted

our last portrait.

Decomposition is alive and well

In the reality of life with no filters.

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Tuesday

Snow falls

hard,

like rice 

thrown at a wedding. 

Hard

like

new beginnings 

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January 15 2015

The Hippo is making 
a forty year old potroast. 

No, the Hippo is forty, the pot roast is Not. 

It is his first, but forty years in the making,  there are very few carrots . Plenty of potatoes and onions.

He is using my crock pot, 

a surprise for me .

Worried because he’s unsure …

If he’s doing it right .

So he tells me, “there is a potroast”

I am touched.

So very very touched.

A Home gesture.
I say “it’s slow cooking, 

Nothing can go wrong.

If it’s wrong it’s the meat 

not you . Not your effort.”

    We talk about carrots, onions …

    Gravy.

    Can of tomatoes ?

    Gravy,

    Gravy,

    Gravy.

    Use corn starch.

    Vodka …. starch … potatoes ….
    Then the silence where the casual subsides, the audio tide recedes.

    The silent whispering NOW.
    I ask how the Walrus is doing.

    “He’s upstairs sleeping.”
    I tell the Hippo,

    “The Walrus may need a blood transfusion.”
    “Catscan on the 

    23rd.

    No chemo 

    Now. 

    Walrus is 63.

    63.

    last December”.
    Silence

    Silence

    Silence 
    I am rescued…

    the fan buzzes above me

    forcing out the cool air.
    Turqouis and orange balloons bob, held to the ground, Imprisoned with invisible string.
    I want to cut them 

    to their freedom.

    They could laugh at their captors, 

    taunt them…. as they bobbed up and up and up to the Sheraton lobby ceiling .
    There,

    a discovered new entrapment.

    A new entrapment, a new freedom.

    They would be held there for days …

    Nights …

    A week …. 

    Then deflate ….

    There …

    Then expire back 

    down to the floor

    and
     die.
    Gravity is our prison.

    Not so much 

    any 

    circumstance.

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    Small pleasures

    image

    Small pleasures.
    A bouquet not to be plucked
    from the ground.
    The perfection of the trefoil.
    Whispers from the ancestors,
    the Isle of Man.
    Archetypes and memories everwhere…
    and centuries
    have now
    just passed.

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