Since you also played jazz saxophone, became a star
in track, I see how smoothly you attended your first rock
concert at 80, ventured to Star Wars films at 81 after a
lapse of 30 years— the travel in the moon, glint of the
eyes, sun-washed smile, made possible with Irish
whiskey, rare beef.

Backstage, listening, wonder leaning forward in your
stance— delight abundant— unconditional acceptance
of a child. Never any distance from trips you made
with your dad—Sundays scouring the
Museum of Natural History before dawn watching
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West unload.

A consummate showman, you presided at the Palace of
Fine Arts, illuminated the ancient world, projected slides,
proclaimed devotion for your wife. Gestures you
made to embrace animal ways, the seeded earth.
Your voice cracking with memory— deans of Columbia
determined mythology— not a suitable subject for study.

Five years in Woodstock, you read ten to twelve hours a
day— missing the show this year, returning to Honolulu—
laughing, describing Kundalini yoga, breathing through
right nostril, dying on Halloween when the veil is thin,
your cassettes droned on a ghostly white, your booming
New York accent sounded throughout my California house.

In my waterbed, this Saturday night, I lie back, listen.
You teach me to step over carcasses of white caribou
on a northern slope. My eight year old calls,
“Isn’t that grandpa talking?” You say, “We seek to
discover heroism as a means of finding
the heart of a culture.”