Typewriter Poem: “With Ink”

Originally Posted: February 3rd, 2016
Updated: January 26th, 2020

Found out my friend Ryan passed away last year. We met at the Canoga Park Art Walk a few years back…I typed him a poem, he showed me his drawings. Young guy. Potential. We stayed in touch, hanging out and talking, reflecting. The last time we talked, he told me he was focusing on recovery.

Addiction uses our mind/body as a feasting ground. How to fight back? Maybe a poem. Rest in peace, Ryan James.

“With Ink”

winter, i
never stay, we
smile from coffee, i
wasn’t addicted, yet

flip scratch to cook, there’s
always the birds, but
fuck where they’re going, and
fuck where we’ve been, I

wanted to let you crash.
The car’s gone, now. Music’s stolen,
too, but my hands don’t miss
much, these days. these days, i

split wood to burn paper, pick
words like ash, you see it’s
winter, now, and i

billimarie
february 3rd 2016
for ryan james – rip

Above image is artwork by Ryan James, a gift he gave me after I wrote him a poem the first time we met.