by Axel Howerton
Bill Kinsella died today
leaving, as he always did,
when he was damned good and ready
It broke my heart a little to hear it
little cracks forming, splitting, glowing red from underneath
at the idea that he chose to leave us behind
Those cracks were already forming
the last time I saw him
tall and thin as ever
paper thin and faded like an old page
more crooked and folded and dog-eared than I remembered
Bill told me he was tired
worn through
and I nodded, as one does
as if I knew the weight of the years he’d lived
Bill taught me
A long time ago
about the Music of Words
about the Magic that glows behind Life
and Baseball
and Brautigan
Bill taught me about Love and Loss
about Moonlight
and the hanging curve
and the terrible joy of hitting it square on
Bill wrote stories of regret and redemption
and the writerly things about writers
because that’s what he was
Always
He took me on trips to Frank Pierce, Iowa
and Hobbema and Vegreville
and the weird back rooms of Vancouver
I rode with him across pages
from our own hometown in Alberta
to the jungles of Courteguay
where voodoo chiropractors turn out iron-armed infielders
and Dennys Kelly turned into a wolf
Bill showed me the world
with all of its cracks
and the Magic glowing red underneath
the hot stuff
and the thundering tempo
and the seventh-inning stretch when we all get to look
and feel the heat on our face
Adios, Teach
Enjoy the next game
and save me a seat
- For Bill 9/17/2016
Kintsugi Poets Society 